


Between the Raindrops

by CMBaggs



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Blackwater Massacre, Canon Divergence - Red Dead Redemption 2, Country & Western, Drama & Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, POV Multiple, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2019-08-27 07:09:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 33
Words: 81,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16697773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CMBaggs/pseuds/CMBaggs
Summary: One young woman leaves New York City and the glow of civilization to make her own way in a man's profession. She finds that the World can be a pretty crazy place.Set before, during and after the fateful Blackwater Massacre.





	1. Reality Check

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm an amateur. Critiques welcome.

The concrete canyons of New York were behind her. First giving way to cool, dark woods eaten away by progress and then to the Great Plains. The stagecoach swayed and rumbled over the dirt roads and Emelia stared out at the golden rolling grasslands, speckled with sagebrush like scruff on an outlaw’s chin. Bison and pronghorns roamed in the distance and hares scurried from the trail, breaking cover. Without steel and glass to hedge it out, the sky loomed huge and limitless. Pristine azure so rich and pure she had to rest her eyes from the perfection of it.

“You’re as excited as a child in a candy store, Doctor,” Mrs. Davis stated from across the cabin. She looked up from her book; an Oscar Wilde effort. Her limpid, wide set blue eyes regarded the young doctor with open scrutiny. “It’s nothing but dry grass and tumbleweeds. A big city girl like you will be bored in a week.”

A hundred miles of rough travel and still Emelia had not warmed to the wealthy couple sharing the stagecoach. She granted her well-traveled companion a weary smile. “I’ve never been this far south or west,” she explained. “This is all a grand adventure for me.”

“Truly, my dear girl,” Mr. Davis joined in, a puffy partridge of a man in a grey three piece and felt bowler. “I can’t help but wonder why you would want to travel so far from home. You can’t be out of university more than half a year.”

“You are correct, Mr. Davis,” Emelia confirmed. “Time to put all this education to the test.”

“Syracuse is in such lovely country,” Mrs. Davis added, closing her book and placing it in her lap. She folded her gloved hands over the cover.

“And already you strike out?” Mr. Davis said. “It is highly… unusual. A woman _your_ age. All _alone_.”

“Travel can be dangerous,” Mrs. Davis agreed.

Emelia took a breath and tried not to bristle under their concern. _They mean well._

“Especially for a lady of your… well, appearance.”

“Christopher,” Mrs. Davis admonished, flushing pink as her blouse.

“Well… I only mean to say,” he sputtered, jowls shaking. “Well, you’re very… well, delicate, Doctor. And lovely, I dare say. _Very_ lovely. Some men, well…” he flushed a ridiculous shade of red and cleared his throat. “Not all men are of pure intention…”

“ _Christopher_ ,” Mrs. Davis hissed, swatting his arm.

“Well, I…” Mr. Davis continued, digging himself deeper.

Emelia suppressed a laugh.

“Your family! They _must_ be worried,” Mr. Davis insisted. “Yes! _Terribly_ worried. Why not seek a practice closer to home, Doctor Griswold? Your family is _not_ without means…?”

Emelia nodded, too honest to deny the significance of her name. “You speak good sense, Mr. Davis,” she said diplomatically. “But I’m afraid New York is drowning in progress.”

“You say that like it is a bad thing, Doctor,” Mrs. Davis tutted.

“Well, no… it’s…” Emelia said, carefully trying to find the right way to articulate what she meant. “Well… The practices are all so established within each neighborhood. But out here?” She took a great breath. “Out here, I hope to be of use.”

“Ah,” Mr. Davis said with a chuckle. “The spirit of a missionary, I see.”

“Well…,” Mrs. Davis allowed graciously, “You have been charming. I will certainly call on you, should the need arise.”

“Oh, no darling,” Mr. Davis soothed. “We’ll only be staying as long as is absolutely necessary, I assure you.”

“Well… I am thankful for that,” Mrs. Davis said haughtily. “Blackwater has improved, I will admit, but it will never match Boston or New York for sophistication. Regardless of how much silver or gold they pour into it.”

Their conversation shifted to the merits of the Great Eastern Cities and their hope of returning for debutant balls and cotillions. Emelia smiled and stared out the window.

On the crest of a hill she noticed them, three men on horseback. Kindred travelling souls, she thought. She waved to them. They watched the coach roll by, faces shrouded in the shadows of their wide brimmed hats. So different from the dapper little city bowlers and top hats her own brother so favored.

“So mysterious,” Emelia remarked wistfully, swept up in the romance of their freedom. “Where could they be going with only the clothes on their backs?”

Mr. Davis cast an indolent glance out the window. “Local Ranch-hands,” he stated dismissively.

They had no cattle or sheep with them. Emelia continued to watch them, as they urged their horses down the steep hillside. Picking their way around the rocks and trees and sagebrush. Eventually, they picked up speed, their horses rapidly closing the distance. She could make out the colours of their shirts, their horses’ coats. “They don’t even use the roads,” she remarked enviously. “Oh, I think I shall have to get a horse of my own.”

Mrs. Davis finally looked for herself. “Heavens. Dear? Are… are they following us?”

Her husband said nothing. His lips disappeared under his waxed moustache, and the crease between his thick brows deepened. He rose from his seat and hit the ceiling with his fist. “Mr. Stone,” he called out. “Be on your guard!”

Over the clopping of hooves and the creaking rumble of the wheels, the din of conversation passing between Mr. Stone and Clem, the Messenger, quieted down. A sharp snap of the reins and the shaking intensified as the coach picked up speed.

“My heavens!” Mrs. Davis exclaimed, clutching at the glittering brooch on her high lace collar. The stagecoach jostled and rattled. Emelia gripped at the brown leather seats, trying to remain stable, and made certain her satchel was still safe and secure at her feet with a touch.

The beating of more hooves escalated. Two men rode up next to her window on the left. A dark-skinned man in a soft slate coat. Slim and graceful. He kept his eyes forward, focused. His companion was older. Heavier, rounder, compared to his clean and nimble companion. His long dark hair streamed from under his tan hat. Their faces were covered, their pistols drawn, gleaming in the sun. Another rider came up fast on the right. Beyond Mrs. Davis’s hat, Emelia saw only a flash of blue. They overtook the coach.

A shot rang out and Emelia flinched. Mrs. Davis screamed, and they all ducked lower, the coach continuing at a bone rattling pace. Over it all Emelia heard a hoarse and angry voice.

“Stop the goddamned coach!”

Another crack of thunder. Two. Someone cried out and the horses screamed. Their young shooter, Clem, fell from his perch. Emelia looked out the window, saw where Clem hit the ground. He drew a leg up, restlessly, his chest heaving in panicked breaths.

The wheels locked and the coach skid to a slow stop, the horses. Emelia reached for her satchel. Gathering up her grey skirts, she opened the door.

“Doctor Griswold,” Mr. Davis cried.

Emelia leapt down from the caged and staggered when she hit the baked earth. She ran.

“What the Hell!”

She did not look back for that angry voice. A terrifying crack echoed, and Emelia flinched but did not check her step. She slid to a stop in the dust next to Clem. Poor man panting in pain and panic.

“Look at me,” she ordered. His grey eyes rolled about, unfocused. She did not see the fall and so she did not jostle him needlessly. “Look at me. What’s your name?”

“C-C-Clem,” he managed.

“How old are you, Clem?”

“I… It hurts, Miss.”

Emelia opened the young man’s jacket, then his shirt. She checked the wound in his shoulder. Blood on the ground beneath Clem granted her some hope that maybe it pierced through.

The clinking thud of steps fast approaching forced her to look up. The third rider. A bull of a man, broad-shouldered and tall. He filled her vision with his presence. She could not see his face under the black cloth but _everything_ about him was menacing. He pointed a gleaming pistol at her, cocking the hammer.

“Get back in the goddamned coach,” he snarled, coarse voice barely muffled by the road stained bandana. She applied pressure to staunch some of the bleeding with a lower portion of her skirt, the only thing she had, and steadily met his gaze. Blue eyes wild and bright under the shadow of a battered black hat.

He was in a cold rage.

But Clem whimpered, quivering beneath her hands, blood hot and sticky beneath the pressure. It lent steel to her spine. She did not look away from the brute looming over them both.

“Please?” she managed. “I have to help him.”

He did not lower his gun. His voice dropped in volume. “Don’t give me no trouble, miss.”

Emelia’s pulse doubled, and Mrs. Davis wailed like a wounded animal. Sweat trickled down her spine and Emelia swallowed despite the fear constricting her throat. She took a steadying breath. Then another. _Don’t panic, Emma. Don’t panic…_

“No…” Emelia said. “No trouble, Mister. I… I just want to help. _Please_. That’s no trouble to you.”

He blinked, and she thought, maybe, that his scowl softened a degree or two.

“Is it, Mister?” Emelia pressed, testing her luck and putting too much faith in his hesitation.

He said nothing, only glowered at her for a moment that felt like an age.

“Popped the lockbox,” the dark younger man shouted. That snapped the threatening degenerate out of his contemplation and he finally lowered his gun.

“Gonna get yerself shot, miss,” he growled before stalking off. She watched him as he mounted his dark horse, making certain they really were leaving. As the hoofbeats receded into the ambient sounds of twittering birds and Mrs. Davis’s sobbing, Emelia allowed herself a breath of relief. She looked at Clem’s pale face. Conjuring confidence, she asked, “You still with me, Clem?”

“Y-Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“Brave man,” she said, warm and steady. “Let’s get a proper look at this now, shall we?”


	2. She'd Giggle at a Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang is enjoying the easy life.

They got lucky.

Real lucky.

Stagecoaches were always a gamble. With shotgun messengers trying to fill you with lead and no guarantee as to the caliber of the passenger, Lenny reckoned the risks usually outweighed the reward. _This_ had been a good bet. A few hundred dollars each, and a case of jewelry besides. They rode hard for the first couple miles. Putting distance between them and the mark. Taking a long circuit away from and then back towards Blackwater, skirting towards the west and then the south-east. Lenny wanted to get back. To jot his name down in the Ledger. Like the man up front.

Dutch was the Boss. No doubt. He provided the grand vision. Lent his class to the whole operation and set them apart from the rabble of gangs that remained. But Dutch didn’t execute the plan. If Lenny Summers had to pick a man to study under, it would be Arthur Morgan. Man was tireless. Capable. Always pressing forward, faithful and fearless.

They needed him.

“Whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing well,” father said.

Lenny _understood_. He saw a goal, a standard to reach same as earning his grades in school. If he worked hard, stayed eager and kept his head, he would grow into the role just as Arthur waned. The natural progression of these things.

They moved at a more ambling pace now, resting their horses a bit. Arthur looked back over his shoulder for a third time.

“Think we’re being followed?” Lenny said, checking for himself. There were only the golden crests of the Great Plains, wavy in the heat of the day. The coach was long behind them. Not a soul on the horizon…

“You forget something back there, Morgan?” Bill asked with a chuckle.

“Shut up, Bill,” the older man grumbled. He nudged his bay mare into a canter, seeking distance, but Bill followed. Dense as lead. Talking about that foolish bit of business. Sort of nonsense that ended with needless killing. Arthur had good sense, though. Read things quick and kept his head. Would have been a damn shame gunning down an unarmed passenger… a girl no older than Lenny himself.

“Messenger’s sweetheart you think?” Lenny asked. “Maybe the fella’s wife?”

“Naw…” Morgan drawled. “Just a doctor.”

Yes, that would have been bad business.

“Sweet lookin’ thing,” Bill said, still needling Morgan. “Way you keep looking back, reckon you got some business back there.”

Arthur reached up and adjusted his hat. “Bill.”

The low way he spoke, it was a threat plain as the sun in the sky.

“Some oil drillin’ maybe?”

Abruptly, Arthur wheeled his horse ‘round, turning on a dime, and forced Bill’s stocky Ardennes to rear up.

“What the Hell!” Bill shouted. Brown Jack reared again, and Bill tried to keep the horse calm. Morgan drew Boadicea to a sudden halt as they came parallel, within arms’ reach. He snagged a fistful of Bill’s dark plaid shirt and yanked him almost clear out of his saddle.

“One more word,” Arthur growled. “Just one more goddamned word and I’ll knock yer teeth out!”

Bill quieted down.

They descended into the valley around Flat Iron Lake and the trees steadily grew taller and denser. Riding around Blackwater, the cool purple dusk settled, and the gas lamps flickered to life. Indigo buntings serenaded the setting sun. They continued along, until the music and commotion of town died away. Quietly, the three riders trotted into camp a few miles south of the booming town. A shanty of tents and wagons. A loose group of migrants in search of honest work. Or so their story went.

Still, it was home. Pearson had stew bubbling in the pot and there was always a hot pot of coffee at the ready. Javier strummed on the guitar, some soft lilting tune from Mexico, humming quietly. The camp settled in for the night, around fires and at the gaming tables. Maybe, Lenny thought, he might try some dominos tonight. See what leads Hosea’s picked up. Lenny led Maggie to the posts and brushed the dust out of her golden coat, settling her down for the night.

He was setting down a pail of water when Ms. Kirk wandered over. Her small scrappy frame swam in her buckskin duster. Her golden hair fell loose around her shoulders like a mantle. She patted Maggie as she smiled up at Lenny and his heart turned inside his chest. Hopeless.

“How’d you do, Mr. Summers?” she asked, sweetly. She grinned, showing her wide teeth. Golden, wild Jenny. Lenny could not help but grin back.

“We did good,” he said, trying to force the smile from his face. Trying to be humble, echoing Morgan’s quiet no-fuss sureness.

“Oh yeah?”

“A hundred to the gang savings, plus some to the camp box, easily.”

She hooked her thumbs in her belt loops and whistled at that. “Not too shabby, Mr. Summers!”

Jenny was no damsel.  She never broke cover or lost her head. She would sure look pretty in pearls all the same.

Lenny’s own mother owned a string. A gift from his father. He had been a good man. Worked coal and salt mines as a free man. Scraped and saved and put himself through school, then college. Became an honest to goodness businessman in a time when they said it could not be done. Made something of himself.  Played by all the rules. Yes. A good man. A decent man.

Until a pack of drunk fools murdered him.

Revenge was a fool’s game, sure. Still seemed the only right course of action.

Lenny resolved then to take his portion from the jewelry. If Jenny hawked it… well that was fine too. Pragmatic as she was. Another of her many virtues. It’s the thought that counts.

“How’s things been here?”

She smiled coyly. “Dutch is plannin’ somethin’,” she said. Her eyes gleamed, grey as thunderclouds threatening to storm. “Somethin’ real… big.”

“Is that a fact?” Lenny asked, rubbing his chin.

“You betcha,” she confirmed. “Dutch’ll need guns. I’m gonna throw my hat in. You reckon this here might be your sort of job?”

“If I’m needed,” Lenny promised. “I’ll be there.”

“I knew you would, handsome.”

They sat together by the fire that night, with all the gang. Her hair afire, molten gold in the light. Slugging whisky from the bottle. Smoking and singing the filthiest songs this side of the Mississippi. Uncle led them into the rounds of Ring Dang Doo. Jenny laughing so hard she snorted, and Lenny wrapped an arm around her waist. She leaned in. Kissed his mouth, unflinching and unashamed and Lenny Summers knew he was lucky.

Real lucky.


	3. Gainful Employment and Loans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friday, March 2, 1899.

Emelia was the youngest daughter.

Her mother was venerable, armored in haute couture and ensconced in High Society. The matriarch with grand designs and Emelia’s darkest fear. She did not want to become her mother.

Her elder brother, Edward, was his mother’s son. From the shape of his nose to his imperious expectations and iron will. The man of the house.  Now. They had Emelia’s husband picked out. Her future planned. They were of one mind and flank in concert.

How very charming. Certainly. Practice medicine. It lets people know we’re humanitarians. But a wedding in June would be too perfect. And then? Well, then you have children. Have we not indulged you enough? You can’t possibly mean to continue wandering around hospital wards with a husband and social engagements to attend.

As if medicine were some frivolous hobby to be set aside, like polo or gambling… 

Her last engagement, the one that solidified her decision to steal away. Like a thief in the night, with little more than three dresses and a few gifts from her father, was a benefit for the poor. Her sister, Caroline, made much and more of the vast misery in the tenements; tuberculosis, syphilis, and alcoholism rampant, the rivers polluted with sewage. Oh, but the wonders of charity and how delightful it felt to be doing _something_.

It struck Emelia that while she sat in luxury, trussed up like a pig on a platter, she could be _doing_ something. All the money in the world amounted to nothing if there were not enough physicians willing to give of themselves.

Blackwater Surgery was but a simple red brick and white trim building off Main Street. Single story. Four elegantly carved pillars held up an awning over the entire stone sidewalk the full length of the front façade. The word Surgery was written in the glass above the slim French doors. Number 32.

Emelia took a breath. She turned the round brass knob and entered. The noise of the street died away.

It was small but fine. Victorian geometric tile floors and dark molding lent the small space an air of quiet confidence. It smelled of lye. Daylight streamed in through the skylights, setting the polished millwork and waiting chairs aglow.

Emelia walked to the reception window and rang the bell.

A man, no older than her father would be, came to the counter.

“Hello,” he said, mustache turning up with his smile. “How can I help, Miss…?”

“Doctor Emelia Griswold,” she supplied with a smile. His eyes lit with recognition and he smiled wider.

“Ah, the good doctor,” he said, reaching to shake her hand. “How do you do? I’m Doctor Cornelius Thompson. A pleasure. Clem Stone will keep the use of his arm, thanks to you. Fine work.”

She blushed. “Thank you, Doctor. I…”

“It is a good thing he came to me straight away… you lacked proper antiseptic… or morphine, but yes… he made it here. How can I help you? Are you in need of care?”

“No… I was… I’m actually looking for work. I was hoping, perhaps to work with you? If you’ll have me.”

His smile faded.

“I… Well…” he stammered.  He narrowed his eyes suspiciously and asked, “Did Worthington write you?”

“No,” she replied. “Honestly, I just looked at a map and picked something far from New York.”

Dr Thompson smiled thinly beneath his salt and pepper moustache. “Indeed,” he allowed. “So, what are your qualifications?”

“I graduated from Syracuse.”

“You have all your documentation?”

“Of course.”

“And… where have you practiced?”

“Nowhere officially,” Emelia said. “But I volunteered all over the City.”

“Oh, I have no doubt,” Doctor Thompson replied. “But Blackwater isn’t some fancy New York Hospital, Doctor. Oh, sure, she’s booming. But we’re on the edge of the civilized world here. Still got homesteaders out there in need of care and stubbornly refusing the comforts of the city.”

Emelia said, “I will help in any way I can.”

“You’ll be expected to ride to their homesteads. To treat them in their homes. You understand?”

Emelia nodded, even with the memory of cold sweat on her back. Of the dizziness that threatened to overtake her when she stared down the barrel of a pistol.

If people, good, regular people too sick or wounded to make the trek could live out there… She can if she must. Was this not the good deeds, the adventure she so desperately wanted? Would she really let her mother win out over one little isolated mishap?

“It isn’t right,” the old doctor said, as if guessing at her thoughts. He looked at her squarely, assessing, drumming his fingers in an anxious way. “You’re barely a slip of a girl. Why, if anything happened to you out here… well I don’t think I’d ever forgive myself.”

“All I ask, Dr. Thompson,” she said, calmly, “is that you give me a chance. Just a few weeks. If I make a mess of things, I’ll hop on the next coach back to Rigg’s Station.”

“Damn right you will,” he agreed.

“Please, Dr. Thompson,” Emelia pleaded. “Let me try.”

Again, the man sighed. He ran a hand over his shiny scalp. “Oh, all right. You have a horse then?”

Emelia’s eyes widened. “A… a horse? I mean, I hope to own one, eventually. But, I thought…?”

“That we’d give you a driver and carriage?” Dr. Thompson asked. He laughed. “Oh, dear girl. You’d certainly be a target then. No, no, no. You must have a horse and the proper saddle bags and a good, sturdy satchel. If you know nothing of horses, however, perhaps a ticket to Rigg’s Station will save us both a headache.”

“I’ll get a horse.”

Emelia headed to the bank next.

A far cry from the soring ceilings and marble of the palatial banks back home, West Elizabeth Co-Operative Bank was a strange fusion of eastern style and frontier charm. A burgundy and turquoise baroque patterned wall-paper covered the walls from the fine oak paneling to the tiled ceilings. The tellers’ windows lined the right side of the entrance room, secured with brass cages, three in a row, leading to the offices in the back.

She looked at the paintings hanging on the walls. Prints of still-life’s, like _Lemons, Oranges and a Rose_ were hung in gilded frames.

Emelia reasoned that she was not seeking this loan as a result of fiscal stupidity on her part. She did not gamble or drink it away. She was robbed. Through no fault of her own. Why did it need to feel so… shameful borrowing money to regain her footing? She’ll pay it all back. Promptly. With interest. Where is the shame in that?

“Doctor,” the secretary called. “Mr. Weinstein will see you now.”

It was no fault of hers and yet she felt foolish and shameful all the same.  

The décor continued into the manager’s office, only the paintings were replaced with daguerreotypes of his family. Severe looking and black and white. “Hello…,” he hesitated a moment as his flicked his gaze down to his note. “Ah, Doctor Emelia Griswold. Of the New York Griswolds?”

She smiled tightly and nodded. “Quite, good sir.”

“A pleasure,” he said, beaming. His brown hair was center parted and plastered to his head, like an open book. “Welcome! I’m Mister Herman Weinstein.”

“How do you do, Mr. Weinstein?”

He smiled. “Quite well, thank you.” He motioned to the empty seat in front of his desk and Emelia sat. “How can we assist you today?” He added, hopeful; “Seeking to make some investments?”

“Well…actually,” Emelia took a deep breath. A moment to compose herself. “I am in need of a… well… a loan, Mr. Weinstein.”

“Oh. My. Whatever for?”

“As you may have guessed, I’m new to town.”

“Ah, yes.”

“And the victim of a most dreadful encounter… My coach was robbed, if you can believe it.”

“Yes, actually, Doctor Griswold,” Mr. Weinstien agreed, sympathetic. “I did hear that such a thing had happened. Were you traveling with Mr. Davis.”

“I was.”

“The open country can be dangerous. You must have been terrified!”

“I… I was, I will admit I was. And so, here I am,” Emelia said with a shrug. “A single woman without any of her proper currency, and hoping to find work with Doctor Thompson.”

“Yes, good man, Dr. Thompson.”

“He has agreed to allow me to practice under him, -”

“Here? In Blackwater? How wonderful.”

“Yes,” she said. “Provided I have transportation to travel about the county. I need to purchase a horse and saddle, Mr. Weinstein.”

“Ah. Yes. Well… it all makes perfect sense. Perfectly perfect. However…”

“However…?”

“We do not deal in Small Loans, Dr. Griswold…”

“I was hoping you could make an exception?”

“Regardless of how charming the applicant,” Mr. Weinstein continued. “However, if you could perhaps contact your family, and if they would be willing to back you… well, maybe then…”

“Please. My brother is such a busy man. I… I would prefer to earn my own way… you understand?”

“I am sorry, Miss,” he said again. She held her tongue. “With the interest rates being what they are, it just makes no sense to loan to an unmarried woman…”

Emelia almost laughed. She looked up at the ceiling tiles for a moment. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well… a husband could have been your personal guarantor…”

“But then I would lose my rights. And be a broodmare, besides? No thank you, Mr. Weinstein!”

“Now, it’s not as dramatic as all that…”

“Under law I am free to enter into a contract under my own name, Mr. Weinstein,” Emelia said through her teeth. “I am a skilled professional with a job pending, if you would only assist me with the purchase of a horse.”

“Be that as it may, it is simply not something we do. The low interest alone isn’t worth the risk.” Mr. Weinstein says. He leaned forward and added, more gently. “Just send a telegram to Mr. Griswold. Perhaps, if he’s willing to be your guarantor…”

“Could I not leverage the horse?”

He laughed. “No. What if it gets stolen? Or killed?”

Emelia considered it; sending a message to Edward. For one delirious moment she imagined demanding her inheritance and that he might acquiesce. A lovely bit of fantasy. She’d rather die than beg or be dragged home. Emelia stood from her seat. “I am sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Weinstein.”

 

The lobby of the Blackwater Hotel and Restaurant began to fill. Emelia pushed her boiled potatoes around her plate, dragging the thick gravy about. Her stomach quivered anxiously. Perhaps a glass of wine and a bath would calm her nerves. But she remembered her funds were finite at present. Where would she get money for a horse? Sell her few remaining pieces of jewelry? She could not imagine parting with her father’s ring. Her dresses? She packed so little to begin with.

Anything would be preferable to calling Edward for aid.

Almost.

“What is the matter, dear girl?”

Emelia looked up. A slim man stood over her, a glass of red wine in hand. Wearing a pressed pinstripe shirt and blue neck tie. Clean, trimmed grey hair swept back from a sharp, narrow face. He reminded her of her own grandfather. Shrewd and wise.

“Oh… good evening, sir,” she said. The concerned look on his face warned her that she might be looking a little too sorry for herself. “I did not mean to trouble you.”

“I am certain it is no trouble at all,” he replied gently. His accent was a little hard on the edges, like Edward’s Austrian investors. “You see, my dear, I am in the habit of assisting those in need.”

“Well… I mean,” Emelia said, blushing. She felt so foolish being in this situation at all. Disgraceful. “Well, it would be kind of nice… to talk to someone at least.”

“Of course. I am, as they say, all ears,” he said, taking a seat opposite of her. “Please, what could be so terrible to have such a lovely young woman so distressed?”

Where does she even begin?

“My name is Emelia,” she said. “Doctor Emelia Griswold.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Doctor. I am Mister Leopold Strauss.”


	4. Money Lending and Other Sins Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thursday, March 16, 1899.

Money lending was a delicate game.

It was all in the selection of the mark. You needed one with the right balance of desperation and will. Timing was an important factor. Sometimes the most important. A great usurer must have an excellent sense of timing.

“There’s one of ours,” Leopold said, peering over his copy of the Blackwater Ledger and nodded in the right direction. They were leaning back against the red-brick façade of the Imperial Theater. They kept in its morning shadow.

Arthur followed Leopold’s gaze to the petite doctor stepping out of the quarantined house. In a dress of tulip and willow patterned cashmere wool. Pearl drop earrings. Hair styled in an elegant French pleat. Terribly out of place in Blackwater. Like an orchid growing in the most fetid of swamps.

Arthur frowned, taking a pull of his cigarette. “You can’t be serious,” the young man grumbled. His voice dropped to a harsh, anxious whisper. “That’s the doc from the stage heist.”

Leopold smiled thinly. “Then I have you to thank for this serendipitous window of opportunity,” he replied archly.

Arthur looked down at his cigarette, his dark hat casting his weathered face in deeper shadows. Strauss noted the shiver of contempt pulling at the younger man’s lips. “Seems I got a gift for causing misery.”

“The debt is starting to… mature.”

“Christ,” Morgan muttered. “You are serious.”

Leopold laughed. "She's been doing this for two weeks now. Bought herself a horse and hasn't even used it. I hear she is near useless in the saddle. She has spent our money on all manner of precious items... morphine, vaccines, ether. Not that I do not appreciate the value of medical supplies, but… she wastes it on useless endeavors."

"I reckon that family don’t find it useless," Arthur put in, nodding towards the condemned house.

Leopold could not help but smirk at the younger man’s blunt observation. It was good he left the thinking to the elders. “The mother and a child have succumbed already. And still she persists! A fool’s errand but it must be to our gain.”

"So?” Arthur asked irritably, pushing away from the wall. “What’s it to do with me?”

"Is there a problem, Herr Morgan?" Leopold asked, eyeing up the sullen outlaw. “You grumble as if I do not cut you in.”

Arthur swatted the question away. "What do you want Mr. Strauss," he asked.

"I want you to remind her that she still owes money," Leopold explained.

“Doubt she forgot.”

“Just… have a little chat, will you?” Leopold suggested. “Let her know she can always pay with those earrings, or the clothes off her back, if she wants.  I don't care.”

“That’s clear,” the grizzly enforcer drawled.

“Just make sure she starts thinking about ways to return what is owed."

"Said yerself it's only been two weeks,” Arthur reasoned, staring at the house. He rolled his shoulder. “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. He scratched the dark burnished scruff on his face. “Seems like this whole thing is downright… unnecessary.”

“Hm. Perhaps you are right,” Strauss allowed, growing impatient with Morgan’s complaining. This was not a job for a man who overthinks. “Or perhaps… I need to find one more _dedicated_? I will ask one of the other boys. Herr Bell, perhaps, might be willing to assist me.”

Arthur’s stance visibly stiffened at the suggestion. He made eye-contact and Leopold smiled at the fury he found in the enforcer’s face. Devoted. Prideful. Pliable. “Fine,” he snarled. “I’ll do it.”

“Are you certain, Herr Morgan?” Leopold pressed with a touch of derision. “I would hate to trouble your conscience.”

Arthur flicked his cigarette to the ground. “It’ll be my goddamn pleasure,” he muttered, stamping out the ember.


	5. Debts and Lies

There ain’t no time like the present.

Arthur found the Surgery on Main Street, just as Strauss said. Between Fitch’s boots and the Blackwater Tobacconist. Little thing, young and owing a tidy sum; three hundred dollars after the interest.

Arthur let himself in. The noise of the town died away to but a muffled commotion. Natural light came in through the skylights, setting dancing dust motes alight. Place was real quiet. He moved forward, admitting himself beyond the waiting room and followed the small hall, checking each room, until he came to a storage space. Wooden, recessed shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, stocked with clear vials and brown jars and stainless tins of various sizes. Each label of creamy paper marked with black ink. A satchel sat on the desk, open, vials waiting to be replenished.

He spotted the girl organizing pharmaceuticals. The jars clinked softly as she carefully shifted them around. She was up on a six-foot ladder, precariously leaning, for a group of amber bottles on a top shelf. Her long, printed skirt flared, swaying around her buttoned kid-leather boots. A pretty pattern; bunches of white and gold flowers against sprigs of leaves in sky blue and ultramarine. Her narrow waist accented with a wide navy waistband. She stretched to her toes, delicate hand reaching, reaching and finally plucking one of the bottles.

One for the journal.

Arthur waited until she was stable again before clearing his throat.

“Howdy, miss,” he said, not sure how to start this whole… sordid thing. “I’m, ah, lookin’ for Doctor Emelia Griswold.”

“You’ve found her, sir,” she sang proudly, turning. She looked him over from her higher vantage point. Like a doe lifting her head the moment before the shot, warm brown eyes assessing him at a quiet glance. She smiled. This young, do-gooder doctor up on her pedestal. Hair pulled back in one of them fine styles. All cream and caramel and softness.

“You,” he said, stupidly. He removed his hat.

 “Of course,” she stated. For an instant a little frown pinched her dark brows. Carefully, she climbed down, single-handed, from her precarious height, cradling an amber bottle. He stepped forward, offering her a hand, which she did not take. “Why d’you ask?”

“Well, uh, it’s just that…” Arthur stammered. He scratched behind his ear. Now he’d done it. What was he gonna say? _Gosh, Doc, was hopin’ I’d never see you again after robbin’ ya blind…?_ Real swell, Morgan.

“Because I’m a woman?” she demanded instead, one hand on her hip. The other gripped the bottle of morphine. She did not recognize him, with a set of clean clothes and a holstered gun. Without the bandana. A mercy.

“Heh. I was gonna say,” he began, set to spin some yarn and he could not help but smile. “Well, just that yer young, is all. I’m… impressed.”

“Oh…” she said. Color crept in her cheeks and she smiled again. He preferred nuggets of truth to outright fabrication, anyway. Easier for him to keep straight. “How do you do, Mister…?”

“Morgan,” he provided. “Arthur Morgan.”

“A pleasure,” she said, in that pleasant, un-guarded way decent folk do when greeting other decent folk.

He ain’t decent, and he said; “I’m here on behalf of Mr. Strauss.”

“Oh,” she replied. Just like that, it was like the sun got swallowed by clouds. “Yes… well, you see, Mr. Morgan, I…” She went to the desk, to the satchel and stored the morphine away. “Well, I don’t have all of it. Yet.”

“Is that so?” he drawled. Just like Strauss said. “Fallen on hard times?”

She cast her eyes to the ground and blushed from her slim throat to her dark hair. “Do any of us deal with loan sharks if not for hard times, Mr. Morgan?”

“That’s a damn shame, miss,” he said, with a slow shake of his head. The lines were the same as always, but this felt especially filthy. Considering. “But a deal’s a deal… and the debt’s just about due.”

“Does he accept preserves?” the young doctor asked.

Arthur frowned. “Preserves?”

“Prickly Pear to be precise. Or some eggs, perhaps?”

He laughed, uneasy and almost afraid to ask. “Don’t you make _money_ , Miss?”

“Doctor,” she supplied.

“Beg your pardon?”

“It’s not ‘miss’ or ‘missus’ or any other brand of the sort,” she stated, holding her head higher. There she was. The fierce little thing who stared him down. “I am a _doctor_ , Mr. Morgan. Please. Address me as such.”

Arthur chuffed at that. “A doctor who ain’t gettin’ paid, it seems.”

“Yes, well…” That knocked some of the pride out of her, but she did not lower her gaze. She flushed again, taking a moment to compose herself. “I… admit. Things have not been as easy as I foolishly imagined.”

“That’s life, Doctor,” he said honestly. “Now, about payment?”

“I do not have the money, Mr. Morgan,” Dr. Griswold said plainly. “I’ve been caring for homesteaders and residents in the South end. And the cost of my supplies…”

“You’re a fool to work without gettin’ paid, Doc.”

“Better a fool than a heartless brute,” she rejoined.

“Better still than a doctor setting her own broken legs,” Arthur countered, instinctive and scornful. Her eyes widened, and she backed a step, her courage waning.  He had given her a heartless response, for certain. More softly, he added, “I'm just sayin’… these ain't the debts to welch on, Miss... Doctor."

“I… I don’t intend to… to ‘welch’,” she said solemnly, clasping her hands. “This… I assure you, Mr. Morgan, this whole… arrangement is shameful enough. I don’t want it said that I do not repay my debts.”

Arthur watched her, those dark, earnest eyes and blinked. She weren’t spinnin’ some yarn to soften him. He dropped his gaze and cleared his throat. “So… uh, you serious? All these fine rich folk in town, and yer boss’s got you out gallivantin’ -”

“You suppose only the rich get sick, Mr. Morgan?”

Arthur blew out a breath. This lady doctor was just too damn quick for him. The sort of lady who pulled her hem back from his muck. “It ain’t right,” he added and waved, hat in hand, toward the door and Blackwater beyond. “What with all them… well… _degenerates_ ridin’ about?”

She stared at him, tilting her head, curious. An easy little smile teased at her mouth. Long enough that he began to feel silly.

“It… it hasn’t been so bad,” she tried. “I have been frightened, more than once, certainly. But the work is rewarding. I… I just need a little more time.”

He felt like a proper rake now. Robbing a decent girl twice over.

“Please, Mr. Morgan?” she implored. Like when she ran out to that stupid kid. Leaning over him, hands covered in blood, unflinching even under the threat of a bullet between the eyes. Her polite pleading was enough to turn his stomach.

“Alright, Doc,” Arthur said on the heels of a sigh. Strauss wouldn’t like it one bit, but the man could do with a little more patience. “I think we can stretch the terms a bit. On account of you bein’ so decent an’ all.”


	6. A Horse and a House Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friday, March 17, 1899 – Emelia makes a fool of herself.

Emelia was lost.

It was the dead of night and it was pouring. The sort of constant, driving rain that plastered hair, and heavy skirts, to skin and chilled to the bone. Even with her lantern, the pelting downpour obscured and distorted everything rending already poor directions useless. How do these folk issue directions at all without street signs? She was afraid to open the map for fear of soaking it.

Belladonna’s dark ears were flattened against her head. She looked sullen and irritable. As miserable as Emelia felt.

They clomped passed a gnarled tree with a split trunk, grey and shriveled, and Emelia felt the sinking feeling that they managed to wander in a complete circle.

“All these rocks and trees look the same,” she cried aloud to the storm. Bella whickered. The storm, for its part, answered with mocking thunder and fatter drops.

“Come on, girl,” Emelia said, trying to muster her confidence, patting the horse’s hot neck with soaked gloves. She shook the rains and kicked her heels. Belladonna snorted and stamped her way off the path and up a little grassy hill. “No, no no,” Emelia said. She tried to encourage Bella, with a gentle steady pull on the reins, back to… well, she thought it was the trail. The horse tossed her head and obstinately backed up from the direction the doctor desired to go.

“Come on, Bella,” she pleaded. “There’s a kid out there who needs me.”

Belladonna ignored her silly greenhorn rider entirely and focused her attention on the shoots of grass on the hillside. Her conscience was clear. The rain or the well-being of some stranger a secondary concern to a good grazing. She whickered happily.

“Please?” Emelia tried. “I’ll get you extra oats…?”

The horse snorted derisively and remained fixed. Emelia dropped the reins and sniffled. She stared up at the sky and let the cool rain wash her tears away. She could hear her mother, voice melodic and soft as velvet. _I told you. You are too naïve and the world is harsh and cruel. You’re not cut out for the mess of it all._  

“What the bloody Hell d’ya think yer doin’, miss?”

Emelia startled at the voice, and Bella lifted her head, suddenly alert, ears pricking forward. They looked at the bottom of the hill, at a large man with a shotgun. Water beaded off his thick brows and moustache. A child stood at his side with a lantern, huddled in a coat.

“I… I beg your pardon, Mister?” Emelia said trying, futilely, to dry her eyes.

“Get yer damn horse off my house!” he snapped.

“Your… your house?!” she asked, incredulous.

“Yes, you loony,” he said, gesturing with the butt of his rifle. “Yer standing on it!”

“Oh!” She said, though she did not fully understand. “I’m sorry! I’m lost.”

She tried again to urge Bella forward, but the horse remained motionless. Now in a full unmitigated sulk.

“I’m a miserable rider,” she declared, throwing her hands up. “I am so sorry, Mister.”

“Where you headin’?” the man asked, working his way up the hill.

“The Buller Homestead.”

“Christ… you’re the doctor?” he asked. He laughed. “Guess we’re lucky!”

It took a moment. For his words to register. “You’re Mister Jeb Buller?” she asked.

“You betcha! Git inside and see to my boy. I’ll get this stubborn nag off my roof.”

Mr. Buller took hold of the reins and Emelia dismounted. She unhooked her satchel from the saddle and proceeded to go back the way Jeb came, down the hill. The child, a girl wrapped in a shawl, smiled nervously and lead the way. They walked around the hill and Emelia saw it. The little cracks of light coming through shutters and a door set into the hillside.

“Oh,” she said. “I… I did not even know this was a thing.” 

“Cool in summer and toasty in the winter,” the girl said, shouldering the door open. “Pa figures we almost got enough saved for a proper house!”

The home was small but warm and dry. It smelled of earth and boiled beef. They had plastered the walls with newspapers, to keep the dirt and dust contained. There floor was made up of wooden planks.

Mrs. Buller greeted her in the kitchen. A steely woman with dark hair and bright eyes and nearly as tall as her sturdy husband.

“Thank you,” she said. “For findin’ yer way in this! Let me take your coat, Doctor. I’ll try to dry it out by the fire.”

“Thank you.”

Emelia was led into a little back room containing the children’s narrow bunks. A single lamp burned weakly on a little nightstand. Emelia carried her own little glass lamp to get a better look.

The boy, more a young man, was doubled over, groaning, holding his right lower abdomen. He sweated profusely, his sandy hair darkened to brown.

“When did this start?” Emelia asked.

“Before dinner, I reckon,” Mrs. Buller said from behind her. “He said he weren’t hungry. And our Jimmy is always, hungry. Then,… he started feeling funny. Said he felt green. The pain set in, and then Jeb ran to the neighbor.”

“It… it really hurts, Doc.”

Emelia kneeled next to the bed and pressed her hand to his forehead. Burning up for certain.

“When you press down, or when you release?”

“When I let go.”

Emelia smiled softly and nodded. “You’re doing marvelous,” she said. She took his vitals, noting his true temperature and checked his pulse. “Stay strong and we’ll get you fixed up.”

“A, Alright…”

Emelia went back into the main room. “I’m thinking it’s appendicitis…” she thought aloud, just as Mr. Buller came in from the rain. “It can be deadly. I’ll need to remove his appendix.”

“His what?”

“An inflamed appendix. It is what is causing him all that pain.”

“Don’t he need it?” Mrs. Buller asked, skeptical.

“It’s… well, we’re not sure what it does,” Emelia admitted. “It doesn’t seem to do anything, to be honest. He’ll be fine without it.”

“Well…” Jeb Buller started. He looked in on his boy, the worry etched into his weather-beaten face. “What are you waitin’ for?”

Emelia took stock of the room. A far, far cry from an operation theater.

“I’ll need the table covered in a clean sheet, if you have. And more light. Please, as much light as possible. And water. We must wash.”

The family did as commanded. Emelia rigged the lanterns, trying to minimize the casting of shadows and set them to full light. Jimmy was moved, despite the pain, to the kitchen table, which had been prepped with a relatively clean strip of bedding.

Mr. Buller returned with a bucket of rain water. Emelia unbuttoned her fitted sleeves and rolled them passed her elbows. She scrubbed herself, from her elbows to her fingertips with lye and then wiped down with her prepared carbolic solution. She had Mr. and Mrs. Buller do the same. She set out her stainless-steel instruments on a gauze towel and wiped them down again. She washed Jimmy’s abdomen, too. Always with the precious solution. Methodical. Precise.

_Calm… stay calm, Emma._

The family watched all her preparation with muted fascination. Or perhaps dread.

Emelia looked at Jimmy’s sister. Lilly, they called her. “I need one to stay, to handle the dropper, and in case I need an extra set of hands… but the others may want to go to the other room,” she suggested. “This…won’t be easy to watch.”

“Here’s some whiskey,” Mr. Buller offered. Liquid amber in the light. “For,… well…you know.”

Emelia took the bottle and, to Mr. Buller’s surprise, drank a large pull for herself. The liquid burnt all the way down and settled, like a hot coal in the pit of her stomach. For Jimmy, she prepared the ether.


	7. Just a Man on the Tight Rope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hosea ruminates on how big the gang has gotten and misses a simpler time.

The sun was high. A fly crawled along the rim of Bill’s whisky bottle as he dozed next to Uncle in the cool shade of the old gnarled pinion pine, where it stood sentinel in the center of camp. Their current camp was on a grassy little bluff overlooking the smooth silver expanse of Flat Iron Lake. The land sloped gently towards the muddy shore. Little Jack Marston played at the water’s edge, trying to catch rusty crayfish with bits of gristle on string. Arthur sat nearby. His attention seemed riveted to the disassembled rifle laid out on the rough-hewn table before him, cleaning and oiling to keep the mechanisms pristine. Hosea Matthews knew better.

Blackwater boomed since their last visit all those years ago. Trading outpost no more, it seemed that the mayor had it in his head to become the Boston of the South West. Construction on a train station was rumored to begin the following spring, and the Ferry Dock would start ferrying passengers to St. Denis starting in April. Stage coaches arrived daily laden with the hopeful or the desperate. All looking for a chance to start over.

Hosea hoped as much. The Gang had a rough winter. Perhaps they were getting too big. What had once been a tight, well-oiled trio had ballooned to twenty-five souls. Dutch could not help but collect the lost and damned.

It took much and more to keep a crew of this size together. The clashing of personalities and talents. Fist fights and bawling had long become a nightly occurrence. Even the women were at each other’s throats like barnyard cats. Hosea hoped he was not growing curmudgeonly in his twilight, but he longed for days passed. When he strolled garden parties in his Sunday best, weaving a confident tale and coaxing the greedy to part with their wealth.

The boys rode back into camp like conquering heroes. Sean MacGuire, Micah Bell and Davey Callendar, specifically. Chests puffed out and smiling wide with all the swagger of a heist well executed. Hosea walked over to greet them.

“Like shooting fish in a barrel,” Sean crowed. An Irish hooligan they’d picked up a couple years back. Cocky and brash.

“Two in one day,” Davey said, as he sauntered up to the stew pot. A young man with a talent for violence. He grinned from ear to ear. “We caught sight of one on the way back and thought… why not?”

“Did it go easy?” Hosea asked, pragmatically.

“Just a few warning shots,” Davey said. “They quieted down real nice.”

“Not at all worried this might be going to the well too often?” Arthur asked, speaking up from the table. Instinctually cautious. Despite Dutch’s efforts to break him of it.

“Don’t know if you noticed, cowpoke,” Micah Bell stated, his voice rising defensively. A permanent sneer lingered on his upper lip, hidden beneath his long blonde whiskers. “But we gotta whole lotta mouths to feed and very few willing to work.”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Arthur said. “Money’s been good. Seems to me we ought to work a place slow…”

“Work it slow?” Sean asked with a laugh. “Are ye talking about a job or women, English?”

“My answer to both is to hit it hard!” Davey chimed in, while chewing, his mouth twisting into a grin.

Neither comment dissuaded Arthur. “We keep actin’ crazy, hitting ‘em always on the same lines,” he reasoned, “we’ll bring the law down on us faster than a dog gets fleas.”

“Why you always so sour, Morgan?” Micah asked caustically.

“I’m just sayin’ ya need to let the waters still, damnit.”

“The ladies and I have found good pickings in town,” Hosea offered. “And we haven’t had to draw a gun on a soul yet.”

“Yes. A pocket-watch here. An earring there,” Micah conceded. He spoke with that strange deferential lilt to his voice but Hosea had been at this far longer and no amount of honey could ever sweeten Micah’s tongue to his ears. “You gotta take your time… and pick twenty pockets all in the same amount of time it takes us to rob one itty bitty little bank coach. Work smarter, not harder, old-timer.”

“When you want to cook a frog you’ll get more success with patience,” Hosea replied smoothly. “Turn up the heat in increments and they won’t notice until it’s too late.”

“Only, we’re not cooking frogs. Are we?” Bell retorted. “We’re trying to get _money_. To feed all the dead weight sitting in this here camp.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Arthur demanded, voice building an edge. “I never see you lift a finger ‘round here.”

“Look,…” Micah said, confidently hooking his thumbs into his gun belt, belly swelling slightly over the buckle. He grinned, already chuckling at his own joke. “Playin’… nursemaid and stable boy might suit _some_ here… but that’s not what _I_ was brought on for.”

Arthur shook his head and chuffed. “Well, I seen you shoot, so I _know_ it weren’t as no gun.”

Micah’s smile fell.

“Heh… you’re a funny guy, Morgan. _Real_ funny. Way I see it, yer a big boy… so it’s only right you pull your weight proper.”

“Uh-huh. I’m sure you do.”

Micah huffed an irritated little breath and Arthur turned his attention back to cleaning the bore of his rifle. Hosea took a seat next to the enforcer at the table and watched the hitman trudge off into camp.

“I…just don’t know what Dutch sees in ‘im,” the younger man muttered.

Hosea looked at Arthur. He did not know. Once, it had been just the three of them; two con-artists and an angry boy. They had been a gentlemanly finesse crew then. Confidence games, and pick-pocketing. By the time Hosea fell back in with Dutch and Arthur in ’86, the gang had grown. Everything had changed.

“You know,” Hosea started, on a whim. “I could use you in town.”

“Me?” Arthur asked, setting down the Springfield next to the double-barreled shotgun. All clean and gleaming. “Weren’t you just braggin’ you had no need for violence?”

Hosea smiled and rubbed the back of his neck. He remembered a time when Arthur had been valued more for his caution and deft touch rather than his strength or steady aim. He could still crack a safe faster than anyone else in the gang. Before they had an inkling to how big he’d get. Before Dutch learned Arthur would do anything, with all the starved eagerness of a boy, desperate for approval.

A damn shame Wisdom was such a funny, fickle thing. You only gained it after you needed it.

“Come now…” the older thief said. “You used to run scams and schemes easily.”

Arthur wiped the gun oil from his hands on a handkerchief. He smirked under the brim of his gambler’s hat. “Oh, sure. When I couldn’t fight…”

Hosea nodded, and faked a smile. Yeah, boy learned to fight alright. Through more trial and error than Hosea had ever felt right about. The scars on the younger man’s face and knuckles remained a constant reminder. He came to them a starving, desperate boy and they made him into a… well, Hosea supposed it turned out fine. Arthur never complained.

“Come check for leads with me,” Hosea pressed. “Might be good for you. Get you out of camp for a few days.”

“I could do with getting out…” Arthur started. He looked up and met Hosea’s gaze. “Just don’t do too well in civilization…”

“You do better than most of this rabble,” Hosea said, and it was true. A brute Arthur could certainly be. Could back a man down or lay him out sure as a bullet to the brain. But he could be observant. Patient. Able to allow opportunities to bloom.  “Think about it, at least.”

“Sure, maybe you’re right.”

Hosea hoped for a taste of the good old days.


	8. Back in the Saddle

Arthur dared hope they would buy that land. Sure, it was not California, but it was pretty country, afire with colour in the fall, all powder and crystal come winter. Graphite just didn’t do it justice. They wintered comfortably enough in those rolling foothills, teeming with game. To own the earth and grow something, even if wild and unruly.  To put down roots…

It was mid-afternoon in Blackwater. Hosea had gone back to the rooms to count their gains and rest. With each winter, time affected him a little more. Coughs shook a little harder, joints stiffened and left lingering aches.

So Arthur strolled along Main Street, going it alone. Bathed and dressed a little finer, he looked the part. Listening to the innocent banter of decent, honest folk. Alert to anything his clever partner might be able to exploit. The conversation blew around him, like bits of paper.

How are you? How’s the missus? Fine weather we’re havin’! Jimmy Buller is on the mend. Can’t wait for that railway line, helluva thing. Won’t need to rely just on coaches anymore. Lasky’s havin’ a sale on fresh goods today…

A fine dust clung to the air, diffusing the late afternoon light. Clip-clopping hooves and the rumbling, creaking, of wood on cobblestone. Men toiled in the fine spring sun. Hoisting beams and securing joists, building their town with their own hands. Hammering and call-outs and the bleating of city living, a racket compared to the serenity beyond Blackwater’s limits.

Sure, it was nice to stay in town, getting a bath and sleeping in a proper bed after so long, but he had always been a little too wild for polite company, more at ease in the saddle and miles away from all this industry.

Then he saw Doctor Emelia come out of the Surgery.  Dressed in a white blouse and sunflower yellow, a spot of sunshine on the cobblestones. She staggered along, her skirts swirling around her boots, lugging a set of black saddlebags over her slim shoulder. Listing to one side under the weight.

“What the Hell,” he breathed, quickening his step to catch her. Arthur wound his way, sidestepped a full-figured woman, meandering as she was with a satin parasol and matching bonnet, protecting her lilly-white skin. People waved to Doc, smiled at her, and she would slow a bit to say a word. A couple fellers stopped suddenly to chat smack in the middle of the sidewalk forcing Arthur to check his stride. Bunch of fools.  

More the fool him for chasing a girl down the street like he was.

“Howdy, Doc,” he hollered, before he could change his mind.

She checked her step and looked over her shoulder.

“Oh…,” she said, colour draining from her face at the sight of him. “Hello, Mr. Morgan. I have not forgotten my debt to Mr. Strauss.”

“What are you doin’?” Arthur asked instead, closing the distance with purpose and gesturing to the leather sacks. “You tryin’ to catch yerself lumbago?”

“I…” she giggled despite herself. “You can’t… oh, never mind.”

He reached for the bags. “May I?”

The doctor frowned, leaning back on her heel. “I _need_ these supplies, Mr. Morgan,” she said.

“I ain’t here to collect,” he groused.

“Alright…” she said, eyes narrowed slightly, still suspicious. “If you insist, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur nodded. “I sure do.”

He noted the soft dusting of freckles across her nose, the one above her lip, as she let him grasp the straps. Glass tinkled inside the secured confines. Arthur easily hoisted the bags to his shoulder.

“You know… most folk would let their horse do this sorta liftin’…”

“I needed to restock,” she explained. “And… well…I’m not comfortable riding through town.”

“City more like,” he grumbled. “Still, just gotta take it slow.”

“Believe me, Mr. Morgan. I am trying.”

“So… where we headin’?”

“To the stables,” Doc explained.

He smiled. “After you.”

Arthur stayed a step behind Doctor Griswold, allowing her to set the pace through Blackwater. Stuffy name for such a lady. Her hair looked softer, loose as it was, falling around her slender shoulders and looking sweet as brown sugar. Unburdened, her hips and sunny skirts swayed in that feminine way with each light step.

Going through these motions brought him back some sixteen years. When he was just a fool not yet twenty. When he followed another girl, just as fine. In another city just as civilized. He did not rightly belong there either. Twilight had been settling and the lamps were glowing, casting their false light. Mary Gillis had been passing some ally with a girlfriend and some dandy when a starved, shady feller snatched her purse and Arthur, forgetting his place in the world, decided to chase that feller down. He returned the purse to the lady with the man’s blood barnacling his knuckles. Mary made much and more of chivalry and heroism and for a moment in time Arthur had allowed himself to believe in ever after. Mary… pretty as wild roses. Got himself pricked good too. Oh, Mary. He’d never seen anything so beautiful before or since.

Until he pulled a gun on a girl leaning over a stupid kid.

“Mr. Morgan?” she said.

“Hm?”

“Since we’re going to the stables, would you be willing to consider a colt,” Doc asked. “As a method of payment?”

“Uh, a colt?”

“Yes. It’s quite a tale,” she said. Recounting a midnight ride to a homestead and an operation on a kitchen table. “They had no other way to pay me… at least, not without inconvenience. I… I don’t even know how to ride, let alone train a horse. I was hoping, perhaps, that you would accept it as part of my repayment to Mr. Strauss? Instead of cash.”

“Right now?”

“Would you mind terribly?” she asked. “You would be relieving me of a burden, honestly.”

“Well, sure,” he said. “Mister Strauss ain’t too particular ‘bout how he gets paid. But, I gotta ask, Doc. You’re borrowin’ money but paying stable fees for two horses?”

“What was I supposed to do? Leave them outside?”

Arthur shrugged. “Sure, if need be. Just need some shade when it’s hot and protection from the wind if it’s cold. Horses, people… sometimes we just gotta make do is all.”

“Hm. I hadn’t thought…” she began. “We always kept them at a stable… back in the City. And I know nothing about saddling and feeding. Mr. Shelton handles all of that for me.”

“Oh, I’m sure he does,” Arthur said wryly. She cast him a glance. “You really did just wake up one day and decide that big ol’ city wasn’t for you…?”

She shrugged, wringing her delicate hands. Hands that seemed steel-steady the day he first saw her. “Well… It was some version of this or give up the profession.”

“How you mean?”

She looked at him. “My… intended…” she started. She paused, considering how to explain it. A girl like her would have her husband picked out by daddy. Cut from the same cloth as Mary. She said; “He fretted it would reflect poorly if his little wife chose to work.”

“So, uh… that how you came to be in this here situation?”

To Arthur’s surprise, she rolled of her eyes and a sardonic little smile tweaked her lips.

“It’s like a tired plot out of a dime novel isn’t it?” she asked. “A woman running from marriage, getting robbed at gunpoint.”

“Oh, I dunno,” he said. “Life can get crazy just as sure as it can get quiet.”

They arrived at the large stable and livery building. Pretty new, all freshly stained lumber. Sprang up the same way everything was springing up in Blackwater. A far cry from the itty bitty tradin’ post he had been groomed to expect. He pulled the door open and Doctor Griswold led him into the stable proper, the pungent sweetness of hay and dung and horse greeted his nostrils. Doc sniffed and wrinkled her little nose. She showed him the door to the tack room and Arthur obligingly returned the restocked saddlebags to the correct rod, near her saddle.

“So… which ones are yours?” he asked as they exited. “Horses I mean.”

Doctor Emelia smiled and lifted her skirts, picking her way through the soft earth, avoiding dung, to the fence. “There,” she said. “The colt is just over there…”

A yearling more like, ready for the bit. A Hungarian warmblood with a handsome head and deep ginger coloring. The horse made a show of it, raising that proud head and stomping as if to prove himself a stud.

“And there’s Belladonna. Just over there…”

A lovely dapple-grey Arabian cavorted about in the corral just beyond the stable. No wonder she was in debt. Rich girls… Signaling out the breeding. Like to like…

“That’s quite a horse,” Arthur stated with a smirk. The preening mare pranced over closer to take a look and snorted, seemingly unimpressed with him. Figured. The mare allowed him the privilege of petting her, regardless. “Now she’s, ah… an interestin’ choice.”

“You promise not to laugh, Mr. Morgan?”

“Sure.”

“I thought it was love at first sight,” she said. “I looked at Belladonna here, at that soft grey coat, all strangely spotted like something in a watercolour painting and those dark intelligent eyes and thought… _She’s the one!_ ”

Belladonna whickered happily.

“That ain’t so silly, Doc,” Arthur replied thoughtfully, resting a hand on the railing. “It’s just that… well, she’s a whole lotta horse for a new rider. Seems like she knows her mind. A lot like you, I reckon.”

Doc nodded solemnly, cheeks flushed pink and her smile faltered. She leaned against the wooden fence, the curve of her chin resting on her neatly folded hands.

“I feel so stupid,” she confessed. Tears stood in those warm brown eyes and her voice fissured as she spoke. “I came here with this… idea. A dream of… well, being of _use_. Be more than just what was planned for me. And look at me?” She shrugged a shoulder. “Dealing with a… usurer, with animals who hate me in country I don’t know….”

“Hey, easy now…” Arthur said, soft as he’d sooth Boadicea. He stepped closer. “You got nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

She sighed heavily and then she leaned slightly toward him and admit in an embarrassed whisper as he drew near, “I ended up on someone’s _roof_.”

“A roof?” Arthur could not help it. He laughed. “Well, now I am impressed, Doc. That is quite a thing for a green rider!”

“I assure you, Mr. Morgan, it was not by design.” She chewed her lip a moment, staring at her Belladonna. “I didn’t even know what a dug-out was before coming out here. They must have thought me so silly. The impressive big-city doc who walked her horse onto her patient’s roof!”

The little mare, for her part, hung her head over the fence and stared at Doc, rather contritely, ears lopped. Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. What a pair they made… This brilliant, brave girl couldn’t read a horse to save her life.

“Ain’t no shame in bein’ new at something,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning against the fence. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about digging out bullets or dealing with gangrene.”

She found a smile.

“And after that welcome you got,” he continued. He looked at the sand. “Pretty brave, you stickin’ round after something like that.” She was not quite like Mary. “Most ladies… well, they’d be back in New York or Philly or wherever already.”

She wiped her eyes and looked up at him. “You think so, Mr. Morgan?”

“I know it,” he stated with a decisive nod of his head. “Just gotta get back in the saddle, Doc. Your riding ain’t nothing you can’t fix.”

She smiled but said nothing to that. She looked back at her horse, thoughtful and quiet and still afraid to touch her.

“Your Belladonna is a good girl,” he pressed. All horses were, but that was a discussion for another day. “She got you out to that roof, didn’t she? And she ain’t thrown you yet. That counts for somethin’.”

“I… I guess…”

“Just look at her,” he said, gesturing to the horse with a nod of his head and a flick of his hand. “Ears pricked on us, eyes soft. She knows we’re talkin’ ‘bout her. She’s curious. Eager. We just need to make _you_ a good partner.”

“Me? Oh… I don’t know…”

“Sure,” Arthur insisted with a smile and a nod. “You can learn to ride. Just as sure as you can march yerself into a pox-house.”

She smiled at that. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan.”

“So… about that colt…?” Arthur said. “He’s a nice lookin’ fella. Sturdy, even if a little full of himself. You got papers for him?”

 “Yes, of course. Mr. Buller was very kind.”

“That’s pretty good,” he continued, watching her watch Belladonna through the fence, miles away. All silent and determined to mind her own thoughts. “Listen. We’ll take him off your hands and mark this debt as settled.”

She came out of it then and looked him in the eye. The silence stretched. “Truly, Mr. Morgan?” she asked finally, rightfully wary. “Is he really worth that much?”

 _No_ , he wanted to say in all honesty. _We played you dirty and you don’t deserve a single minute of this._

“Sure,” he said instead. “I… think we got our fair share outta this deal.” As close to a confession as he would dare.

She turned to face him. A hand still rested on the fence. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan.”

“Just Arthur,” he said.

Doc raised one fine dark brow. “Are we friends now, Mr. Morgan?” she asked.

He swallowed and looked away a moment. “I reckon you could say that.”

“I’d like that,” she decided, smile blooming. She tucked a stray hair back behind her ear. “You may call me Emma.”

“Emma,” he said. Much softer, more appropriate, than ‘Doctor Griswold’. He could not bring himself to associate her with that big eastern rail and steel racket. Hosea would accuse him of willful stupidity later. “Since we’re friends an’ all. You need any help with this horse of yours or…” Or what, he wondered. Ladies did not knowingly keep company with outlaws. “Well. I’ll be around.”


	9. Walk Before We Can Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emelia takes her first lessons in horsemanship and has a hard time figuring her instructor’s motivations.

Emelia laid awake.

It was not the tinkling player piano music pouring from the Saloon and drifting on the spring air. Nor was it the murmur of voices in the street, or the footsteps and doors in the hall or the fevered creaking of the bed (or the yowling) in the next room. How one shoves a freight train down a rifle barrel held her attention briefly, her virgin ignorance conjuring only more questions… but she allowed them to float by in the current of her greater concern.

Arthur Morgan.

How he found her in the street that day and approached her in broad daylight. She quailed at the sight of the usurer’s hound; near a foot taller, all scruff and strength and hands fit for strangling. She noted the gun-belt slung low around his hips. And the hunting knife.

She thought all these ungracious things about him and then he asked to carry her saddle bags. _He_ did not broach the subject of money or loans – she did that all on her own. Hindsight being what it was, _he_ had been perfectly content allowing her to save face in public. He escorted her to the stables, an unexpected gentleman in spurs and a cowboy hat, and then he did a most extraordinary thing.

“Pretty brave,” Arthur said, rough as gravel and spiced with that strange wild American twang. What mother would deem, along with his solecisms, the cadence of a rustic yokel. And yet it was one of the kindest things Emelia ever heard any man say. He offered to teach her to ride. “Mr. Shelton has tried,” Emelia said in warning and Mr. Morgan only smiled and nodded, clearly not believing.

Why did he offer to help? He knew, surely, that her funds were still stretched. Why had she agreed, like a ninny, to meet him in the morning? Her father, her mother, even Edward, warned about the dangers of strange men and traveling alone in the starved, dark corners of the world. She knew little to nothing of this rough, older man and until today her debt-collector. A thug and a leg-breaker, truth be told.

“You _must_ learn to ride,” she said aloud. And she _wanted_ to learn, to ride astride, properly. To be able to reach patients in the far corners of her territory. Mr. Morgan promised it was a matter of trust and habit and that she _could_ bond with her horse.

The logic did nothing to quell the nervous quiver in her belly.

Emelia woke less than refreshed. She dressed in her riding skirt, still more than a touch conscious of the deep slits and higher hem and ate only a few spoonsful of oatmeal. She blamed her nerves and walked the short distance from the Blackwater Hotel to the stables.

Blackwater sat still in those early hours, soft and quiet in the hushed grey light of dawn. A fog drifted in off Flat Iron Lake and shrouded the timber and brick in cool muted tones. The first hesitant songbirds tested their voices and soon, she knew, the concert would be in motion. Her boots crunched in the gravel as she stepped onto Wapiti Avenue, and she heard the whinnying of horses as she approached the great stained-timber building. Mr. Morgan stood next to a big-boned horse, brushing the coat. In dark work pants and half-chaps, brass buttons enhanced the line of his leg, running from knee to heel. A dark grey striped button-down with rolled-up sleeves that only made him look broader.

Belladonna stood there, next to the larger horse, tethered to the fence. They were each working at a bucket of oats. The horses picked up their heads as she approached and Bella snorted. Emelia paused at the gate and marshaled her courage. If he wanted to harm her, he would have done so already… surely?

“Good morning, Mr. Morgan,” she said, and Arthur glanced over his shoulder. He turned to face her.

“Mornin’, Emma,” he replied with a gallant tip of his hat. A cigarette dangled from his lips.

She smiled. “Is that your horse?”

“Sure is,” he said, looking away from her and back to the mare. “Ain’t that right, Boadicea?”

The mare’s coat gleamed like polished mahogany in the growing light. Four dusky stockings with a mane and tail as black and glossy as a raven wing.  Arthur patted her firmly and the horse whickered, her muscles twitching beneath his touch. “You’re a good girl, ain’t ya?”

“Boadicea?” Emelia asked, a little surprised. “I did not take you for a student of ancient history, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur chuffed a little and rolled his shoulder. “Her story, uh, rang true to me,” he explained. “People crushing folk beneath ‘em. Robbin’ ‘n… well,” he looked away for a moment, unwilling to finish the thought in her company. A grimace twitched across his face. “All under cover of ‘Law’. Even after what they did to her… she never broke.”

“So, your Boadicea,” Emelia asked with a tilt of her head. “She still has her spirit?”

He nodded, taking a final drag on the cigarette before speaking. “I’d have it no other way.”

Emelia smiled. As she moved toward them, he said, “Always let ‘em see you comin’.”

He showed her how to greet a strange horse, to keep a hand out and wait for the invitation. To know what that invitation even looked like; a soft touch from a velvety nose or a snort. Usually.

“Some,” Arthur warned, “can have a nasty disposition. Leery of anyone strange. Just gotta be more patient getting’ close to ‘em.”

“People can be the same,” she said.

A surprised little chuckle escaped him. “Oh, sure,” he agreed. “Usually down right awful.”

“They worry that maybe Dr. Thompson has more… experience. Or that I might faint.” Emelia rolled her eyes. “Takes quite a bit of convincing sometimes.”

“Huh, is that so?”

“Well, as you said yourself… I’m young. And I’m new and a woman too...”

“And here I been hearing about town you got hands steady as steel and a kind heart.”

Emelia blushed. “You jest, Mr. Morgan.”

“People say some… interestin’ things after a few drinks,” Arthur said as he guided Emelia toward Bella, showing her how to move around the horses, keeping a hand on, letting them know where she was.

“Come on, then,” he said, handing her a brush.

Emelia looked at the stiff bristled item in her gloved hand, then flicked her gaze back up to his. “I thought you were going to teach me how to ride?”

“Sure am,” he insisted, with a slow nod. “Properly.”

“But,” Emelia started, confused. “I pay Mr. Shelton…”

“I am certain he was more than happy to collect,” Arthur said cynically. “Look. I know you’re a busy woman, Doc.” A weary little smile tugged the corner of his mouth. “People around town talk… how hard you work an’ all.”

“But I _do_ work hard.”

“Whoa now,” Arthur said quickly, almost rueful, throwing his hands up in surrender. “I ain’t denying it. I respect you for it. Believe me. I can see how it might be tempting to let Shelton and his boys take care of your girl,” he continued, more frankly. “But groomin’… well… it’s love-talk to horses.”

Emelia put her hands on her hips. “Really, Mr. Morgan.”

“You said you wanted to be a team,” Arthur said, with a determined nod of his head. “Ain’t that what you told me yesterday?”

“Yes...” she said hesitantly.

“Well. This here is Step One,” he declared. “She ain’t some tool you can just pick up and use when it’s time to operate. Show her she can _trust_ you.”

“Alright, Mr. Morgan,” she said, deciding to have faith in him.

“Smooth strokes, with the pile of her coat,” Arthur explained. “Get where she can’t reach herself. Her chest and the top of her neck.” He stood right next to her, showing her the motions. “Pay attention. You gotta figure out how _she_ likes it.”

“How… how do you mean, Mr. Morgan?”

“Well, uh. Does she like a soft touch or… a little firmness?” he said. “Horses got different likes.”

Emelia bit her lip. “How can I tell?”

“I, uh, suppose you could start with how you’d like it,” Arthur tried, growing suddenly shy. He avoided meeting her eyes. “Then watch ‘er and you’ll see. Horses got no fancy words, but they sure as Hell ain’t dumb.”

“But…” Emelia hesitated until he finally looked at her again and she held his gaze for a solemn moment before asking her question. “How do I know she’s enjoying it?”

He stared back at her. “Well, now…,” he chuffed a little. Cleared his throat again and after a shake of his head, looked away and at Bella. His voice sounded a little rougher. “She’ll uh, get soft in the eyes. Go all relaxed and, uh, willing, I guess.”

“Like this?” Emelia asked, starting her stroke at the line of Bella’s mane and working it down in a firm, even stroke. Bella stretched out her neck under the brush and seemed, at least to her untrained eyes, to luxuriate under the bristles. And, for the first time in her life, Emelia Griswold brushed a horse. Her own pretty girl with the beautiful silver coat. Like raindrops on a smooth dark lake.

“That’s it,” Arthur said in that strangely soft, cajoling way. “Good girl. You’re on your way to a happy horse.”

They continued on in this way, quietly grooming, without a further word for several minutes. When stable hands started about their day, putting out the hay and shoveling the manure, Arthur said, “Okay. Time to go.”

“Riding?”

“Naw, not just yet, Doc,” he said with a chuckle. He untied Bella’s lead from the fence. “Gotta learn to walk before you can run.”

Mr. Morgan meant it literally. They spent nearly an hour walking, side by side, their horses flanking them. Boadicea followed them like a lovestruck puppy on just a whistle. Emelia held the lead for Bella, and slowly she began to relax. The sun climbed higher and the fog faded. There was a strange peace in the simplicity of it. The soft thud of hoof falls, the clinking of his spurs and the ambient sounds of the valley. A crow squawked intermittently, muddling the sparrow songs.

Suddenly, a grouse broke from a bush in a furious flurry of pumping wings. Emelia jumped with a little gasp and Bella reared up with a squeal and Arthur, anticipating it, was there. He grasped the lead just as Emelia released, fearful of the horse’s sudden surge upward.

“Whoa, now!” Arthur said loudly and with a strange absence of emotion. Calm. Drawing out each word in that warm drawl. “Easy, girl. Easy… You’re alright.”

Emelia panted, embarrassed and holding a hand over her heart. She looked at Boadicea, untethered as she was. The big Andalusian mare watched the whole spectacle, unphased, ears flicking curiously. She blinked at Emelia as if asking what all the fuss was about before tipping her attention to the ground is search of shoots.

“Yer too high-strung,” Arthur said, with all the conviction of a diagnosis. He looked her in the eye and placed a hand on her shoulder. The firm press of his touch reassured her slightly and she nodded. “Just… try to stay quiet-like, okay? Horses… they don’t much appreciate a pack of nerves leadin’ ‘em. And even less so on their back. You don’t want her to fret, do you?”

“No, of course not, Mr. Morgan.”

“Then stop frettin’,” he said evenly, with a hint of a smile. He placed the lead back in her hands. “Stay calm, Doc. Like I know you can even when up to your elbows in blood.”

Emelia swallowed and gripped the lead and nodded again. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” she said quietly.

“You gotta learn how to read ‘em,” he said as they moved along, refusing to dwell on the event. “Their expressions… how it runs right through their whole body. Action always follows. When you know how to read ‘em you can guess at what they’re thinkin’.”

When they returned to the stable yard, they turned Bella loose in the small pasture. “Even here, you got chances to learn,” Arthur said. Emelia folded her hands on the fence and rested her chin, watching Bella as she went to graze contentedly. She listened. To the sound of his voice and what he said. “Watch how she reacts to other horses. It don’t take much. Just come on out here ‘n give her a treat or hang out and just… be quiet.”

Emelia took a deep breath. Her nose still wrinkled at the fragrance of dung and dried grass, but she felt oddly hopeful. Peaceful might be a word she would put to the feeling. She tried to remember when she last felt thus and realized it had been with her father some years ago. Skating in the Park. Still ignorant of family ambition and her place in their plans.

Emelia reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a twenty-five-cent piece and held it out to him. She smiled. “Here you are, Mr. Morgan. With my thanks.”

Arthur pursed his lips a moment and those dark brows furrowed. He made no move to take the offered payment, hands firmly gripping his gun belt. He nodded to the outstretched hand. “What’s that for?”

“Well… for you, Mr. Morgan. For the lesson,” Emelia tried to explain. Her smile faltered. Suddenly, it dawned that perhaps he expected more. “I… well, this is all I can spare, really...”

He narrowed his eyes, and his voice came out all coarse and indignant. “Put that away.”

“But, -”

“But nothin’,” Arthur repeated, gruff and a little louder. “Put it away.”

“But your _time_ , Mr. Morgan, is certainly worth _something_.”

“Yer just taggin’ along,” he stated, dismissive and harsh. He turned away from her and skewed his head in such a way that she could no longer see his eyes. “No skin off my teeth.”

Emelia looked at him warily, trying to apply the lesson to the tutor himself. She could not read his expression. “You… you are certain…?”

“Sure am, Doc,” he said. “I best be on my way. See you tomorrow.”

“Uh… yes,” she said, oddly relieved. “Yes, see you tomorrow, Mr. Morgan. Good day.”


	10. Somethin' Bloomin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur finds talking to Emelia almost too easy and frets about getting weighed and measured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry this took so long. The Holidays wrecked my best laid plans and then I was out of the country visiting family until, well, yesterday. I hope you enjoy.

Hope, for Arthur, usually laid low. Like a doe abed in the tall dewy grass, all quiet in the hush of morning. He would not see until he almost rode on top of her. She busted forth, abruptly obvious, and disappeared before he hoped to find his aim.

A gentle rain visited Blackwater that morning, and they started in the stable proper. From the great opened doors, the soft murmur and clean scent of the rain drifted in on the breeze. 

 “I cannot tell you how much this has come to mean to me, Mr. Morgan,” Emelia said, soft and sincere. She brushed Belladonna with smooth, confident strokes, proving to be tenderhearted and intuitive and so very eager to learn.

“How, exactly,” he asked, bitten with that lovestruck sort of curiosity that made everything fascinating and significant. He knew himself for a fool, without doubt. Tracking game he had no business pursuing a second time.

“Having these quiet little moments with these girls. And…” Emelia’s dark eyes flicked up, their gazes meeting over the backs of their horses. The top half of her hair was drawn back, leaving soft strands to fall against her forehead and around her lovely face. She lost track of her thought and returned her gaze to the brush and the pile of Bella’s silvery coat. “I haven’t been this content since…well, for years. Before my father passed, for certain.”                                                     

“You and your daddy close?” Arthur asked, watching her carefully. Like reading a compass for which way to go.

“Yes, very,” Emelia replied. “He always believed in me, encouraged me. My brother thinks perhaps that he overindulged me, but…” she shrugged a slim shoulder. “I wonder, sometimes, what he’d have thought of all this.”

“Why’s that?”

“I want to think that he may have indulged my desire to remain unmarried,” she said.

“Ah.”

“But…” Emelia began and she faltered, uncertain. Something changed in her voice, a tone of disappointment or, perhaps resignation. “Then I remember that Sydney – my abandoned fiancé - had been father’s pick. Regardless of how pedantic. In the end, he still wanted me to marry and to marry well.”

“Daddies always do,” Arthur drawled.

“I suppose,” she said, unphased by his caustic tone. The rain had stopped and Emelia untied Bella’s lead and started for the doors. “I just want the choice to be mine. I am _not_ marrying that man. Maybe I am selfish. I won’t give up my practice to sooth his ego.”

Arthur untethered Boadicea and, with a whistle, followed Emma and thinking how different his life might have been if Mary had an ounce of Emelia’s brand of selfishness.

The rain revitalized the foliage. Late spring buds popped, white and yellow and verdant green. They climbed the slope of the north road, toward the finer houses. All fresh painted with their fancy, carved trims and neat fences.

“What about you, Mr. Morgan?”

“Me?”

“Were you close to your father?” Emelia asked.

“No,” Arthur said, bluntly. He fought the temptation to chase her off the damning topic and more softly he added, “you don’t wanna hear this, Emma.”

“Of course, I do,” Emelia declared. “You’re my friend, Mr. Morgan.”

“So?”

“I want to know who you are.”

It already came to this, the weighing and measuring. He had been so young and stupid when last he wanted a woman for himself and Mary, innocent and naïve, had invited him to a family dinner. To meet her daddy.

They lived in a fine part of town. With cobbled streets and sidewalks and fences around each tree. With large Victorian homes and sprawling yards more finely manicured then he ever hoped to be. Arthur, in love and trusting, walked into the ambush.

“I don’t mind listening,” Emelia insisted, pulling him back. “My work is as much art as science.”

“Meanin’?”

“That depending on the case a little warmth and understanding may outweigh scalpels and opiates.” She had drifted closer, walking almost shoulder to shoulder with him, and offered a smile. He slowed his stride, instinctively, to keep pace with her. “Sometimes I just listen.”

“It ain’t a happy story,” he warned.

“I’ve made house calls to Mulberry Street,” she said, breezily. “I doubt you can tell me anything that I have not seen there.”

He did not know what significance Mulberry street held to this New York City princess, but he knew enough about civilization and found it uncivilized in its own ways. People were wolves, for the most part, and did savage things when pressed tight.

“My daddy… well, he was a nasty sonovagun,” Arthur said. His voice grew tighter with humiliation, and speaking did not come easy. “Would disappear fer weeks at a time… an’ when he finally did grace us with his presence… well, it weren’t pleasant.”

 “So… your father… what did he do? To support the family, I mean.”

“You’re a terrible liar and an even worse actor,” Hosea always told him. “But you’re not stupid. Omit what you can and, failing that, tell a version of the truth to ease that impediment of yours.”

At the head of the table in the great chair, Mr. Gillis held dominion over his family. Wearing a red vest, his chest seemed as round and puffed as that of a robin. The tweed suit did not help. His meek wife sat opposite from her husband. Proper, for certain, but Arthur could not help but note it was also as far as physically possible. Jaime, the timid little heir had already been bundled off to the nursery. Mary sat opposite Arthur, too far away, but a safe focal point.

“Who are your relations?” the older man queried, as if interviewing a clerk for one of his shops and some keen instinctual sense of self-preservation had Arthur keeping his answers short and vague. “I know there are Morgans in Connecticut. Your stature is impressive, I’ll grant, but I still doubt _you_ are of any relation.”

“Don’t know, sir,” he replied. “My parents passed before I right knew anything about any relations.”

“What a shame,” Mr. Gillis remarked, disingenuous. “What was the family business?”

“Small farm, sir.”

“A farm?” Mr Gillis repeated, swirling the scotch in his glass. Arthur remembered the ratcheting dissatisfaction in the man. “How… quaint. And where is it?”

“Lost, sir,” Arthur replied, and that was the truth. “When my mother died. I was young.”

“Hm,” the greying man huffed. His tone just shy of patronizing and Arthur struggled not to bristle. “Where did you go to school?”

“I haven’t sir,” Arthur answered and when Mr. Gillis smiled that curdling smile Arthur could not help it no more and added, “at least, not the sort that comes with a fancy piece of paper.” He could shoot a buck through both lungs and field-dress it on the spot. Could read a map and find his way in the wilderness with the wheel of the sun and the stars in the sky. If a man were wise, he would gauge the true worth of anything by its usefulness.

Mr. Gillis looked at his daughter then and she blanched, and Arthur knew. Oh, he knew, though their romance was slow in its dying.

“Mr. Morgan?” Emelia prompted gently.

“He drank it away,” Arthur said dismissively. “Does it really matter how he came by it?”

After a quiet moment Emelia said, “Does it matter to you?”

Omission had done him no favors with Mary’s father. Arthur looked at Emma. So young and fresh. Lacking in any edges. Soft and gentle and constant in her kindness. He felt all the same wild, hopeful things he had not felt since that brief courtship and wanted. Oh, he wanted.

 “Thieving ‘n robbin’,” Arthur said, flinching but unable to lie to her. “Horses, homesteads, stages… I don’t think it much mattered. Only legit thing he ever done was win at cards.”

“Oh…” Emelia said, crestfallen. “I admit, I am astonished.”

“What did you expect?” Arthur demanded. “I told you it weren’t pleasant.”

“No, you misunderstand,” she said, genuinely embarrassed. “I am _impressed_. I expected you came from something… well, quaint. Like, some little farm in southern Montana. Given your gift with horses and…” she faltered, blushing. “Well, your temperament.”

“My temperament?” Arthur huffed, surprised. “I assure you, Doc, I’m far from… quaint.”

Emelia blinked. “You’ve been nothing but kind to me, Mr. Morgan,” she said.

“Yeah, well… maybe you just have that effect on me.”

“Be serious, Mr. Morgan,” Emelia said, blushing again. “All the men in town talk about how ‘horse sense’ is a gift. Now, I admit, I am a dreadful novice on the subject but you certainly have a way. I thought, maybe it was inherited.”

“This,” Arthur said, tipping his hat, “is all the bastard left me. After I got to see him hang for larceny.”

“Mr. Morgan… I am so sorry.”

He grimaced. “It weren’t soon enough.”

“Oh my,” she said, eyes going wide and sad and he regret his unpolished candor on the subject. “I… I cannot begin to fathom the sort of abuse that could harden your heart so. How old were you?”

Arthur shrugged. “It don’t matter. Back in 74, I think.”

“74… and you were born in 63?”

“I reckon.”

That little frown puckered her brow. “And your mother?”

Arthur felt his throat grow tight. “A good woman,” he managed to say with a firm nod. “Finer than my daddy deserved.”

“What was she like?”

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, remembering. When had he last spoken of her? Or even thought of her. Really thought of her.

“She died when I was very young. But I remember her goin’ into town and cleanin’ for folk for a few bucks,” Arthur said. He looked to the ground and watched his steps and tried to focus on the good. “She’d salvage scraps of paper and nubs of pencils and bits of chalk when she could. All so’s I could amuse myself when it rained.

“And when my daddy came home. Jesus… Tough an’ tenacious as thistles, that woman. I can’t tell you how much she shielded me…”

Arthur could not stop his mind from wandering back. Feeling weak and useless, unable to protect the most important person in his young world.

He could throw a punch now, for all the good it did her.

A sudden warm pressure to Arthur’s hand jolted him out of it. Emelia’s delicate fingers clasped his own and squeezed, so genuine and comforting. He looked at her and felt a surge of embarrassment, feeling unfolded and bare beneath her soft gaze.

“I… I don’t know why I’m tellin’ you all this…”

“I am glad you are,” she said, smiling and releasing his hand. “I meant it when I said I want to know you. You’ve been so kind.”

He chuffed at that. “You need to meet more folk, Doc.”

She looked at him askance, with a hesitant little smile.

“Your self-deprecation is starting to border on heartbreaking, Mr. Morgan,” she decided. “Nor am I some sheltered princess if that’s what you are implying.”

“No, never…” he drawled, and she swatted his arm.

“Honestly, Mr. Morgan,” she admonished with a smile. “You have been nothing short of wonderful. And I’ve met just about enough of Blackwater to know. The reception, at least from what passes for society here, has been not quite what I imagined.”

“How you mean,” Arthur asked, seizing on the change in subject.

“Well, for one, the social set is trying to corner me into joining their ranks.”

“Social set?”

“It’s… well, a club of sorts. Young ladies, mostly married, who meet for camaraderie and charitable works. Miss McCourt thinks I would be quite the addition.”

“Dreadful.”

Emelia laughed and rolled her eyes. “I know… my trials are trivial compared to your own… but I simply do not have time for luncheons or quilting or throwing money at the poor.”

“You sure the poor won’t appreciate it?”

“More than my time and my skill, Mr. Morgan?”

He smiled. “I suppose you got a point there. My momma coulda used a doc like you.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah… you know how it goes sometimes. Ended up in my father’s care, whatever that was worth.”

“I am sorry,” Emelia said, stopping. Again, she reached for him, clasping his hand for another brief, heartening instant. “Thank the Lord you are still here.”

He stared at her a moment, uncertain what to say in the face of such bald, sincere thankfulness. “Ain’t nothing,” he said, a little embarrassed.

“No. It is something,” she said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Arthur smiled. They walked on a several minutes in silence. Boots scuffing the earth. The sun already cooked off the moisture, baking it brown and dusty.

“I… I think Dr. Thompson is perhaps gouging me,” she said.

“Is that so?”

“Well…” she hesitated a second. Then; “He tells me that delivery to Blackwater is already at a premium, being the ‘edge of civilization’. Now, with all the robberies, he has steadily increased the costs. He insists there is nothing to be done about it.”

“I see,” Arthur said. Micah. He lacked in basic patience or satisfaction and Arthurcursed under his breath. Davey and Sean. So brash and arrogant. Annoying and frustrating and his brothers all the same.

 “Most families,” Emelia continued. “Well the homesteaders and the laborers, at any rate, struggle to pay as is.”

“I know.”

“I can’t, in good conscious, refuse treatment.”

“Oh, Emma,” he said. Emelia kept her eyes downcast, long lashes brushing her rosy cheeks. She chewed her lower lip, worrying. “Want me to talk to him?”

Emelia flicked her gaze up, all wide-eyed innocence. “Talk to him?”

“Doc Thompson,” Arthur elucidated. “Make ‘im see some sense.”

“I certainly don’t wish to drag you into this.”

“You sure, darlin’?” he asked, wheedling. “I can be mighty persuasive.”

Emelia blushed furiously. “Oh, I… I’m not certain…” she stammered. “I really should handle this matter myself if I wish to be taken seriously.”

“Then why tell me?”

“Well… I just wanted a second opinion, I suppose,” she said. She looked away a moment. Then she met his gaze again and added, in a voice so true. “You’re my dearest friend, Mr. Morgan. I… I trust you. Absolutely.”

That fool, Thompson, would get a social call, no doubt. The gang too, for that matter. Going whole hog like they were and leaving the pressure to fall on desperate folk. Dutch must not know.

“You could try to make yer own,” Arthur offered. “I mean… maybe not all this stuff yer talkin’ about, sure. But there’s a whole lotta plants that grow, in the wilderness…”

“I’m not sure about herbal remedies…” she said. “In my experience it all amounts to snake oil and love potions.”

“The Indians pass this stuff down,” he continued. “And my mother…”

“Was your mother a botanist?”

“Naw, nothin’ so fancy as that,” he explained. “She just grew a few. Butterfly weeds, chamomile, pennyroyal, lavender… she liked ‘em. Her garden. It, uh, made her happy. I don’t remember too much, but I remember that. Anyway. Might be some ailments don’t need a big bullet to fix. Could save you some. Free up your money for… well, the stuff Thompson is sellin’.”

“I do not believe in administering anything to a patient if it has not been put to the test of scientific method…”

“Well, I dunno about that,” Arthur said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But… well, just ‘cause you ain’t seen it in one o’ yer fancy journals, yet, don’t mean there ain’t something to it. Why don’t you test it yerself?”

For a fraction of a second, Emelia’s delicate brows pinched in a frown before that pretty mouth turned up in a little secret smile. “I will think on it,” she decided. She cast her dark eyes to the sky and giggled. “Oh, the irony. My brother used to tease that flower picking was for children.” She flicked her eyes to meet his gaze. “Why is it that work feels… well, less like work out here, Mr. Morgan?”

“I dunno,” Arthur tried. He shrugged. “Freedom is funny that way. Yer doin’ what you wanna do. Bein’ of use. On yer terms. So yer worryin’ less and enjoyin’ the ride more. I suppose that’s got somethin’ to do with it.”

Emelia stared at him a moment. “Yes,” she agreed, smiling bright. “That has something to do with it.”


	11. Let Me Begin

Emelia reluctantly parted from Arthur that morning with an open heart and a list of flowers. Finally, he shared something of himself, of his less than idyllic past, only to breed more questions. Empathetic and instinctive, Emelia looked beyond a patient’s description of their symptoms. She heard the weariness in Arthur’s voice and saw the wounded, tightness around his hooded eyes. He seemed to know loss like the sharp edges of a knife and so Emelia held her curiosity in check and did not press for more.

And Emelia hoped, despite a nagging intuition that these wounds were indelible, that she would be properly equipped to mend him.

Feeling hungry, Emelia decided to go to the Silver Skillet; a slightly more welcoming establishment to ladies than the Saloon. She smelled the fresh ground coffee from the street, the fragrance of sizzling bacon and melting sugar and bread and her stomach rumbled. She entered the cafe with a smile on her face and spring in her step.

“Hello Doctor Griswold,” Mrs. Davis called from her flotilla of ladies. The group of matrons commandeered a large centrally located table, gossiping over coffee and muffins. Their plumed hats a rival to those worn in New York.

Emelia smiled and dipped in a small curtsey. “Good day, Mrs. Davis. Ladies.”

A little further in, Emelia spied Heidi McCourt and Elizabeth Thornton sharing a booth near an east facing window. They were closer to an age with her, though Elizabeth had recently married. They smiled when they saw her and waved her over.

“Good morning,” Emelia said.

“Will you join us, Doctor,” Mrs. Thornton asked. A friendly girl, even if a little sour looking, round faced and heavy in the chin. Her dark hair curled tightly, and her bangs flicking up, almost like little unfortunate horns.

Heidi seemed a perfect thing next to Elizabeth. Pale ivory and hair like fire with eyes a deep sparkling green. She smiled sweetly. “Yes, please join us, Emelia.”

“I can’t stay too long,” Emelia warned, but she sat, not wanting to eat alone. She ordered coffee and a fried egg and biscuit. They made small talk, chatting about the weather and the new ferry to St. Denis and the Founder’s Day celebrations.

“I can’t wait,” Elizabeth confided. “I’m hoping to convince Harold. It would be so nice to have a reason to buy a new dress.”

“And get him away from the saloon,” Heidi added, taking a prim sip of her coffee.

Elizabeth smiled tightly.

“So,” she asked, addressing Emelia instead, “are you planning on attending the dance?”

“Dance?”

“The Spring Dance,” Elizabeth explained. “Blackwater always has one the end of May.”

“Oh, I do not know. Doctor Thompson usually leaves the late calls to me, so…” Emelia shrugged.

“Oh, but you have to go,” Heidi said.

“I have nothing to wear and no one to go with.”

“Oh, I’m sure you could find something,” Elizabeth replied. “You seem to be doing much better.”

“And word about town is you’ve been keeping company,” Miss McCourt threw in.

“Keeping company?” Emelia said. Her mother and brother had maintained a vice-like grip on her social life. Mr. Sydney Talbot was only a few years older and pretty in the way a bird could be. Fine plumage and prim movements, just as she. In love with the sound of his own song. All their interaction taking place under watchful eyes within the confines of gilded cages. “No. Heidi, I’ve been so busy… I’ve written once to my mother and not at all to that man.”

“Oh, come now,” Heidi whispered with a sweet smile. “We friends. Aren’t we? You can tell us.”

Emelia blinked. “I’ve been on no outings and attended no dinners,” she said, very confused. “I really am at a loss…”

“Oh?” Heidi smirked. “What about the tall, rugged fellow you’ve been spending your mornings with?”

A smile bloomed on Emelia’s face. “Oh, you mean Arthur. But, he’s not…”

“Yes… what’s his name?”

“Arthur Morgan.”

Heidi folded her hands around her cup in a contrite way. Her sugar sweet smile slipped from her face. “He’s not from around here, you know,” she confided, deadpan and Elizabeth nodded in sad agreement.

“Neither am I,” Emelia rejoined breezily, before popping a bite of egg in her mouth.

“You’re different,” Heidi conceded. Her bright, friendly façade appeared again. “You bring… class. We love having _your_ sort of new. But that… drifter?” and now Heidi made a face, similar to sucking on a lemon. “The sort he rides with...?”

“What ‘sort’ does he ride with?”

“Well. You know.”

Emelia waited.

Heidi and Elizabeth exchanged glances. Elizabeth leaned forward and whispered. “Loud mouthed working girls and conmen and shiftless layabouts!”

“Working girls?” Emelia asked. She had not thought… Arthur lacked in polish, but she thought of how he removed his hat when first they met. Of how he offered to carry her bags and how he opened doors for her. She felt a sudden nagging pang of unease.

“And you know he’s a debt-collector and a bounty hunter besides?” Heidi added.

“A bounty hunter?” Oh, she knew the debt collection. But, bounties? Emelia thought of Arthur’s course edges. Of the gun always at his hip and the way he kept his face tilted in such a way that half was usually hidden under his father’s hat. All worn and weathered and scarred.

“Mm hm. Lucy saw it!” Heidi insisted. “So distasteful! A little before you arrived in town, this Robert Sims fellow was set to stand trial for rape and murder and then he just… disappeared! They had been looking for him for weeks.”

“And Mr. Morgan caught him,” Emelia guessed. A dangerous and unstructured profession, and Emelia felt worry like a cold weight in her stomach. “Why did the lawmen not arrest this Sims fellow themselves?”

“I don’t know,” Heidi said with a shrug. She sipped her coffee. “He left the county? Or maybe he was too dangerous? You can ask Deputy Weaver yourself. They always send bounty hunters when it’s safer to… well. You know.”

“Why?”

“Oh, Emelia… sheriffs are gentlemen,” Elizabeth said. “They have families and their communities to think about.”

“And bounty hunters do not?”

“Why don’t you ask _your_ bounty hunter?” Heidi needled with a saccharine smile. “He’s the expert. Brought in Sims beat to a pulp. Can you imagine?”

“No, actually,” Emelia replied. “He’s been so gentle.” A bounty hunter and a debt-collector. She knew what the work entailed. She saw the results of the vocations in the City, had to repair it even on occasion… but Arthur? The same Arthur who spoke so sweetly to his Boadicea… to her? No. She could not imagine it.

Heidi arched her perfect coppery brows. “Gentle as a grizzly bear,” she declared with a simpering smile, and Emelia inhaled sharply. “The boys swear he’s a brawler.”

“You don’t know him,” she said, finding the comparison unfair.

Heidi’s smile grew to something triumphant. “So you _are_ sweet on him.”

“I… well…,” Emelia stammered. “I honestly hadn’t thought about it.”

“He’s a nobody,” Heidi said, matter of fact.

“A ‘nobody’ who is teaching me how to ride,” Emelia explained. “Among other things. To slowdown and listen. To trust in myself and stay the course… He’s been wonderful.”

Heidi’s green eyes went wide, and her mouth formed a surprised circle. “So it is true!” she gasped.

“What? No…” Emelia faltered. “It’s _just_ lessons. He’s not… we’re not….”

“Are you paying him?” Elizabeth asked.

“No…”

Elizabeth nodded. “That’s how the poor keep company out in these parts, Emelia.”

Heat filled Emelia’s cheeks.

“They can’t afford to take a lady out, proper,” Heidi said. “Proof positive he’s got nothing to offer.”

Nothing to offer? Save for a surprising wealth of knowledge, intuition and earthy work ethic. And a kind, helpful heart… “Now, just a minute!”

“You’d be better off holding out,” Elizabeth chimed in, nodding. “You want a man who can offer security. Like my Harold.”

“Besides. He isn’t from around here,” Heidi pressed. “People won’t want to deal with a doctor who deals with… his sort.”

“You can enjoy a view without jumping off the cliff…” Elizabeth added.

“And you know…” Miss McCourt added, quietly. “Mayor Johns was asking around about you. In case you needed some incentive to maybe reconsider your… attachments.”

Mayor Nate Johns… Now it was Emelia’s turn to make a face. She had met the charismatic mayor only once, in passing, while taking supper in the Blackwater Hotel. Well-dressed and well-spoken and clearly the most important man in the room. He was connected and wealthy. He had stock in Edward’s interests and the two would probably adore one another.

“He has said nothing of it to me,” Emelia said.

“Because word about town is you are involved with a drifter, silly pea,” Heidi said.

Elizabeth nodded in agreement. “Poor Mr. Johns has his political reputation to consider, after all.”

Emelia set down her fork and wiped her mouth. “I’ll save poor Mr. Johns the risk,” she said indignantly. “I’ll not reject a man who has been nothing but helpful and kind on ‘poor’ Mr. John’s account.”

“We didn’t mean --,” Heidi stammered.

“Oh, you did,” Emelia returned. “You forget where I was raised, and by whom. I know social pressure when I see it, plain as day.”

“We’re just trying to help,” Miss McCourt stated defensively.

“Good day, ladies,” Emelia said, standing from the table. “I must return to the Surgery.”

“Emelia, we really meant no harm,” Elizabeth tried.

The doctor sighed.

“Perhaps not…,” she said, softening a bit. “I am sorry for growing cross, ladies, but… I simply have not the will nor the inclination to worry about expectations.”

Emelia remained happily occupied the rest of the day. All in all, Blackwater’s health issues were not as rampant as New York City. Syphilis had not riddled the ladies or boys working the Saloon and the Inn. Tuberculosis could not gain a foot hold in the dry climate. A baby with colic, a tyke with a swallowed penny whistle, treatments for gout and childhood diarrhea, a gored thigh compliments of a bull… All just the simple mess of life. And no less important.

The sun was setting, the skylights growing dim, and she knew Dr. Thompson would already be at the saloon, in his seat at the poker tables. Emelia decided to look through the reference material before returning to the Blackwater Hotel. She peeked inside his office and found it perfectly empty.

She perused the titles, checking to see if the good doctor kept anything of value. Her eyes found the fifth English edition of _Henry Gray's Anatomy of the Human Body_. She knew the pages intimately. _Culpeper’s Complete Herbal_ sat on that same shelf, in its old rusty brown leather casing. Emelia pulled it down from the shelf and settled in to see if Arthur’s list matched up in anyway.

As she found the flowers and their documented properties, Emelia felt a pang of shame. Why had she disagreed with Arthur that morning simply for the sake of it? She knew, that all her precious concoctions came from a base source. Morphine and Ether and antitoxins… all of it. Distilled and extracted from the natural world. Her wounded pride perhaps… that an uneducated cowboy could suggest something as outrageous as taking matters into her own hands.

Could Heidi and Elizabeth be right? Could Arthur’s intentions run deeper, her riding lessons but a pretext to become properly acquainted? It explained his vehement refusal of payment, surely. It would certainly be the most novel courtship she had ever experienced. Not that Emelia could count herself an expert on the subject. 

Emelia found Arthur the following morning, leaning casually against the stable. Relaxed as a cat in the sun. Emelia sighed, content in simply admiring him and wondering if such a man would have any interest in a prissy little know-it-all…

The way his pants fit his backside and all down the lean lines of his sturdy legs. Every piece of clothing strained in all the right places. She had not known men could be built this way, all the perfect proportions of the Vitruvian Man.

Or maybe she had been too preoccupied before, so engrossed in study and practicum and desperate to prove herself she simply left no time to notice.

“Howdy, Mr. Morgan!” Emelia sang out, trying to mimic his volume and twang. Arthur pushed off the wall and straightened, turning toward her and tipped his hat with a wide smile.

“Well, good mornin’,” he drawled.

 “I am sorry,” Emelia said. “I did not mean to leave you waiting.”

“S’all right,” he said, flicking away his cigarette.

“I slept a little late,” she tried to explain, closing the distance. She greeted Bella with an apple and gentle pat. “I was lost in study last night. Regarding Achillea Millefolium and Eschscholzia Californica…”

Arthur whistled low, one hand grasping his gun belt. “That was a mouthful, darlin’.”

“Um,” Emelia faltered at the term of endearment and blushed. She felt warm. “Those are the Scientific Latin names of the plants you told me about,” she informed him, recovering enough to muster some mock indignity. “After your brilliant suggestion I decided to do some research.”

“You don’t say,” he said with his easy charm.

“I found Dr. Thompson’s copy of Complete Herbal and some of them were there. And so… I’m going to take your advice and learn to prepare some tinctures and poultices. For less serious ailments, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” he said, nodding sagely, a smile teasing at the corner of his mouth. “Know what you need then? Which ones are the, uh… achillea and… californication was it?”

She giggled.

“You would know them as Yarrow and Prairie Poppy, Mr. Morgan. Do you know where I might find them?”

“Well….” Arthur scratched at his jawline with his thumb and Emelia tracked the motion. “I can show you where to find those poppies,” he offered. “They’ll be bloomin’ soon, I reckon. Yarrow’s later but it’s the leaves we want anyway.”

Emelia brightened. “Oh, could you, Mr. Morgan?” she asked, hands clasped.

“Sure,” he said. “An’ show you how to harvest ‘em without destroyin’ the whole thing, too.”

Oh, he was indeed wonderful. “It won’t be too much trouble?”

Arthur chuckled and shook his head. “No trouble at all. Once we get you in the saddle, that is.”

Arthur showed her how to saddle Bella. To make certain the blanket was free of debris and how to set all the straps and to know how to adjust her stirrups. How to check the girth and find the balance of comfort and security.

“Pinch those reins in your left hand as you mount… so you got ‘em ready if need be.”

Emelia pulled herself into the saddle and she adjusted her split skirts, so the fabrics draped properly. When she returned her attention to her patient instructor, Emelia found Arthur staring. She smiled down at him.

“Mr. Morgan?”

“Alright,” Arthur said, clearing his throat. “You got no one here to impress. Pick up those reins… no. Like this,” he corrected, and he mimicked the position. “With the reins coming out here…” and he gestured to his pinky and ring finger.

“Like this?”

“That’s right. You don’t wanna send yer girl a mixed signal, and this’ll feel more natural after a decent time spent in the saddle. Shift ‘em to yer left if you need to free a hand… but I don’t wanna see you gettin’ fancy ‘til you know what yer doin’.”

Mr. Morgan did not take a rough do-it-or-else approach with his animals. He taught Emelia, and Bella, softer cues. Starting and stopping without cruel kicks or heaving on bits. A touch of the reins against Bella’s neck, the flex of her thighs. The displacement of her weight… Subtle to an untrained eye, but clear as a symphony between rider and mount.

“No slouching,” he cautioned, watching her critically. “Come on, now, princess. Shoulders back, head up, like it’s pulled by a sting. Don’t go hollowin’ out, neither. Whoa, hold up, now.”

They managed to do as told and Arthur closed the distance to them with long determined strides.

“Mr. Morgan?”

Arthur reached up and braced her firmly between his large hands, one splayed flat against her stomach, the other at the small of her back to show her, and Emilia sucked in a breath at the contact and sat up straighter. “Like that,” Arthur said. “Find yer balance and hold it.”

Under the steady pressure and heat of Arthur’s palms, Emelia looked down at him. Followed those tanned, sculpted forearms to the crisp white of his shirt. To that fascinating face; the profound scars marring his squared chin and the plush of his lips. She met his blue eyes. Never had Emelia seen Arthur’s eyes unobscured as they were then, his face tipped upwards to the sunlight as he held her firm. She noticed the gold around his pupils, almost lost in the pale blue, giving an illusion of green. Central heterochromia, her brain supplied, before slipping back to the handsome sum of all the parts.

“That’s it, Emma,” he said, voice all husky and warm. “Remember it.”

Heat flared in her cheeks. Emelia swallowed and nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” she managed.

“Right,” Arthur said, drawing back. He tilted his head downward, shielding his eyes. “Knowin’ a thing ain’t enough. You need to make it habit.” He drew back another two steps and waved her forward. “Go on, now. Go.”

Emelia nodded again and urged Bella onward and she blushed furiously, abundantly aware that he scrutinized her and wondering what he might be thinking. From his position in the center of the corral, barking guidance and encouragement, Arthur flexed his fingers, as if trying to shake off some lingering sensation.

She laid awake that night, thinking of blue eyes and constant, persistent reassurance. Her stomach and back ached from only a few laps of properly sitting in the gait. A good purposeful sort of pain that told Emelia, maybe, she was getting somewhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I understand that we learn how to hunt and track and craft with herbs during the course of gameplay, I didn't feel it made much sense in a narrative for this 36 year old expert survivalist to learn these tricks instantly so late in life.


	12. Feel a Rupture

Hosea and Arthur rode into the encampment, in the heat of the day. It had been weeks since they last stayed in camp, so taken up with their business in town, and Abigail envied them such freedom.

There had been a time, barely five years ago, that Abigail used to follow them into town. To work the saloons in search of good marks. The naïve sort with extra padded wallets and jewelry. Sometimes she’d even get to play a piano. Abigail missed playing most of all. There was something about touching the keys and allowing those clear, tinkling notes to hang in the air. Beautiful and brief. Like a taste of happiness.

Dutch sat in the shade of his grand tent. With proper furniture and finer comforts. The enameled wash basin and French soap. The mirrors and lanterns. The chest full of fine shirts and vests. Reading at his leisure as great men are wont to do and Abigail could not make hide nor hair of the title. Dutch looked up from the page when he heard the horses, and snapped his book shut.

“Hosea!” he shouted warmly in greeting. His smile slipped in place. Dutch stood from his seat and opened his arms. “Arthur!”

“Hey, Dutch,” Arthur said. “Can we, uh, talk a minute?”

Abigail knew at a glance it weren’t for no happy reason with Arthur’s mouth set in such a determined line and his eyes cast in shadow.

“Of course, son.”

The enforcer drew near to Dutch before speaking, only further alerting Abigail to the fact that something wasn’t quite right. Arthur spoke in a low voice. “You gotta get our boys to let up off them coach lines.”

“Heh, I don’t see why,” Dutch said, a positive beat to his tone. Abigail tried to keep her focus on her darning, all while straining to listen to the conversation over the other sounds of the camp. Uncle’s snoring and Karen and Mary-Beth arguing over some story… Lord… did she have to be so loud and insistent all the time?

“They’re keepin’ things clean, fair an’ square,” Dutch explained, with a wave of his hand. The rings on his fingers glittered in the sun. “Such is the way of things.”

Arthur remained sour as ever. “It’s getting so nothin’ is gettin’ through, Dutch.”

“Oh, I think that’s a tad dramatic,” their leader replied with a smirk, crossing his arms.

“The banks aren’t even moving money anymore,” Hosea added. “Too great a risk.”

“You don’t say…” Dutch said, stroking his chin in thought and Hosea nodded, knowingly. “Now _that_ is interestin’.”

“It’s gettin’ bad…” Arthur pressed. “Medical supplies are gettin’ to cost too much and with the payrolls gettin’ held up…”

Dutch smiled. “So…?”

Arthur Morgan blinked. “Waddaya mean ‘so’?”

“I think what Arthur is trying to say is that things are getting tense,” Hosea chimed in, always the diplomat. “Plus, it seems that the O’Driscoll’s set up on the other side of the Upper Montana. There’s been blood. Lots of it.”

“Well, as long as Colm and his scum stay on that side of the river,” Dutch reasoned. “We should be fine.”

“Innocent folk don’t see a difference...” Arthur said. “Alls they see is a pack of wolves….”

“Wolves? Arthur… you know we ain’t cut the same. We’re just… easing a few purses. Rich folk. It’s the natural order.”

Abigail flicked her sight up to the three. Arthur shook his head, hands resting on his hips. “Since when we become so…  apathetic?”

Dutch laughed, an incredulous and amused smile twisting his dark mustache. “What’s gotten into you, son?”

“Nothin’,” Arthur said gruffly, his gaze dropping to the earth at his feet. Abigail tried to keep her eyes on her work and ignore the strange anxiety in Arthur’s voice. “I just… I dunno…we rob ‘em as need robbin’, sure, but they just… take it back. It’s hurtin’ folk…”

“My boy, _that_ is exactly what is wrong with civilization,” Dutch explained, putting a hand on the enforcer’s shoulder. He spoke more softly. “The rich will always steal from the poor.”

Arthur nodded in agreement all the while, just as he always did. Until he stopped suddenly, seized by some persistent thought.

“But…,” he said, hesitant yet insistent, like a starving mongrel on a bone. “We don’t _need_ it, Dutch. We got plenty of money. More than enough to buy that there land back in Ambarino…”

Dutch drew his hand back.

“I told you, son…” Dutch began, though a tightness lingered in his voice.

“No,” Arthur said, meeting Dutch’s eyes. “I don’t think you did.”

“It weren’t right,” Dutch replied evenly. “That land weren’t right for _our_ needs. We wanna go West, remember? California? Where it’s nice and warm and free from all these damn rules. We just need a little more money. So we can buy a good plot and have some seed capital besides….”

Arthur let out a frustrated breath. “An’ here was me believin’ all yer bluster ‘bout us helpin’ folk…”

Abigail dropped her stitch then and looked up, carefully watching through her lashes as Dutch drew back a step from Arthur.

“I don’t appreciate your sarcasm, son,” he said, eyes narrowed. “Or your doubt.”

“I… you know I got your back, Dutch,” Arthur insisted. “I just don’t think…”

“No. You don’t think, Arthur,” Dutch said bluntly. “Best you leave that to me.”

That ended the debate, if it could even be called as much. Hosea shrugged and Arthur stalked away, coming to the edge of the great lake. He stared out over the calm water, something eating away at him.

“Hiya, Uncle Arthur,” Jack sang innocently, heedless of the adult’s sour mood and Abigail flinched. The older man took a steadying breath and tore his gaze away from the view. He looked down at Abigail’s little sandy haired son and managed to find a smile.

“Hey, Jack,” he said. “Whatchu up to?”

Jack stared up at him, grinning. “Tryin’ to catch some butterflies!”

“Oh, yeah?” Arthur asked, soft and patient and Abigail knew that in another life Arthur would have been a decent enough father. “An’ how’s that goin’?

“Terrible,” her little boy replied indignantly, kicking at a stone and Abigail set aside her sewing and moved to join them. “They always fly off.”

“You gotta sit still, Jack,” Arthur explained. “They’ll come to you then… when you ain’t chasin’ ‘em no more.”

“But that’s _boring_!”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Arthur chuckled. “Go git yerself a net then, kid.”

“Could _you_ find me one?”

“Me? Oh, I dunno…” Arthur replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “I guess we could make one.”

“Make one?” Jack asked, starting up at the man all wide eyed and suddenly taken with the idea. “Could we?”

Arthur nodded. “Sure. Alls we would need is a stick an’ some chicken wire. An’ a pair of yer mama’s ol’ bloomers…”

“Arthur Morgan,” Abigail chided. The outlaw leaned away from her admonishing swat, hands up, chuckling just under his breath.

“That would be silly,” Jack giggled, squinting at him.

“Yes… yes it would,” Abigail agreed. “Though… maybe I could speak to Susan. Might be somethin’ round here that could do the trick…”

“Really, mamma?”

Abigail smiled at his enthusiasm. Anything to take his mind off his loneliness. Would that there were children his own age to play with… “I don’t think there’s any harm in the askin’.”

“Oh boy!” Jack said. “I’m gonna go find a stick!”

“A good straight one,” Arthur advised. “Take yer time.”

Together, they watched Jack run off in search of the precious supplies, little legs pumping.

“He’s a good kid,” Arthur said, and Abigail folded her arms and smiled.

“Thanks,” she said. Arthur turned his attention back to the lake and Abigail sidled a little closer to the older outlaw.

“So,” she ventured. “How you been?”

“Fine, Abigail,” he replied stoically. “An’ you?”

“We’re doing well enough I suppose,” Abigail said with a smile. She looked at him askance. “So…” she began. “That talk with Dutch…?”

Arthur sighed. “Yeah?”

“You really think we’re harmin’ folk with all this…?” she asked. “For no good reason, I mean.”

“In a way, yes,” he said, Arthur’s reply came so simple and undressed that Abigail could not help but trust in his assessment.

“Well…” she faltered. “Dutch has never steered us wrong before.”

“No… he’s… true,” Arthur said, nodding. He pursed his lips a moment, in thought, before adding. “Best man I know. It’s just… he ain’t spent the same time in town… with the same people. He ain’t seen what I seen.”

“And what have you seen?”

“Well… just that costs are goin’ up an account of the dangers an’ all. Insurances or somethin’. An’ regular folk can’t always make ends meet,” Arthur tried to explain. He rubbed his neck impatiently, trying to grasp the words. “I don’t mean they’re upset over a silk dress or… or… cold cream or such nonsense. But… medical supplies? An’ payrolls? Ah, I don’t rightly know… seems all _that_ is another matter entirely.”

It seemed a very domestic concern for him, considering he never cared how, exactly, the ends were met in camp. Oh, he brought money and meat, but… finer details? Costs? Insurance? Cold cream? “Good Lord, Arthur… What has gotten into you?”

He shrugged.

“I’d almost think you’d met someone,” Abigail said with a laugh. “What with how turned around you are right now.”

“Well,” Arthur began, hesitating. He looked around a moment, bashful, assessing to see who else might be listening. Arthur looked at her straight and said, “well… maybe.”

“You have,” Abigail exclaimed, smiling. Oh, Lord, she thought. Now this was news. “Well… who is she? What’s she like?”

“Easy now,” he shushed, looking about as comfortable as a soaked cat. “No need to get all worked up. It ain’t nothin’.”

“Like Hell it ain’t,” Abigail said. “How long’s it been? Since… well, Mary?”

“Long time,” Arthur conceded with a modest nod.

“She sure must be somethin’...”

“She sure is,” Arthur finally admitted, ruefully shaking his head and his gruff face cracked into a smile under his hat. Caught like a hare in a snare. “A fine lady. Smart as a whip and too _good_ fer the likes of me.”

Ah. That’s what it’s all about. “Well… is she sweet on you?”

Arthur shrugged. “I dunno. She’s friendly enough…I guess.”

“You guess?”

“Well… I ain’t pressin’ it much,” he said. “Been teachin’ her to ride is all.”

“And…?”

“She’s a sweet thing and she sure smiles a lot,” he said, the rasp in his voice softening. “We talk plenty. She’s got all this learnin’ an’ she talks to me an’… well… She don’t tell me what to think despite all that, which is awfully nice. An’ she _listens_ too.”

“She pretty?”

Arthur reddened at that and cleared his throat. Flustered but honest. “There ain’t words…”

Abigail grinned, charmed by his simple admiration. “Does this fine lady have a name, Arthur?”

“Doctor Emelia Griswold.”

“A _lady_ doctor, Arthur? Good Lord, you’re right!” Abigail laughed. He aimed high, it seemed. The good man inside him drawn to pretty, unsullied things and the dream of something finer, perhaps. Abigail playfully swatted his arm. “She _is_ too good for you.”

“That’s why it ain’t nothin’,” he grumbled.

 “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that, you silly man. It’s just… well… does she know? About us, I mean?”

“No,” he replied sharply. “An’ seein’ as how we robbed her twice, I doubt she’d be too keen.”

 _That_ doctor… She heard Strauss mention catching a fool doctor in his net… Abigail had assumed it was a man.  “Oh, Lord, Arthur… you are a fool.”

“I know,” he said, resting his hands on his hips. He stared at the ground a moment, trying so hard to find the right words that Abigail became seized by a worry. “I know. I’m bein’ a goddamn fool and yet…” he sighed heavily and looked back out over the water. “I dunno. I just can’t help myself. I see her an’… well… I get all stupid.”

“Well…,” Abigail faltered. She did not know what advice to give him. Abigail believed in love once. She thought about when she grew sweet on John, all those years ago. How he inched up on her, like moss on a rock until the idea of being without him seemed impossible. John… that rotten fool. She loved him and wanted to kill him in equal measure. Sometimes, she wondered if she’d have given up on him by now, if not for little Jack. “I guess there’s no harm in tryin’,” she said, hesitantly. “But…”

Arthur looked at her. “But?”

“I… I liked Mary,” Abigail said, honestly. “The idea of her, I mean. But…”

You never recovered, she wanted to say. Arthur kept no company and took no pleasure. Allowed no one to get too close. At some point or another, every girl in camp eventually made the mistake of growing a little sweet on him. Nothing ever came of it, and all their resentment came to rest on the shadow of Mary Gillis. “She did a number on you, Arthur.”

He nodded with a grimace. “Ain’t that the truth.”

“I… I guess, I just want you to be careful, is all. We need you.”

Arthur looked at the ground again. He swallowed. “I know,” he said and sighed. “I know.”


	13. A Social Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Thompson gets some advice.

Doctor Cornelius Thompson heard the pop and hiss of a match. He turned to find a man leaning in the inky shadow of the Saloon, dressed in black. The upper half of his face obscured under a seedy looking cowboy hat. He brought the match to his lips, casting his rough mouth in stark light for a flickering instant. The glint of gunmetal at his hip. He lit a cigarette, taking a deep breath, and the tiny ember blazed to life.

“Oh, hello there,” Cornelius said.

“Evenin’, doctor,” the man said. Low and gravelly and despite the calm, Doctor Thompson felt his hair stand on end. “You got a minute?”

“Well, you see…” Cornelius said. There was something familiar about the man, but the doctor could not place it. A patient? A fellow gambler? “I really should get back home... my wife, you see…”

The dark stranger drew a breath on the cigarette, the ember flaring bright. “Oh,” he exhaled. “Just wanna have a word is all.”

“Yes, well,” Cornelius stammered. He gave a quick glance and saw that he was quite alone in this ally. He decided to continue onward, suddenly feeling vulnerable. The curse of a growing town, perhaps. All these new faces. “Come by my office tomorrow and we’ll…”

The man pushed away from the wall, his full height and size becoming apparent. He stepped into Doctor Thompson’s path.

“Why you gougin’ folk?”

“Gouging?” Cornelius stammered.

“I gotta say, doc… I’m impressed,” the man carried on, his voice rough and acerbic. “Chargin’ ten times what medicine is worth when folk are dyin’… Why, you might as well put a gun to their head an’ rob ‘em proper.”

“You… must be mistaken.”

The stranger took another pull of the cigarette and slowly shook his head. “Doubt that.”

“Well…” Cornelius tried. The man was younger than his voice let on. Straight-backed and burly, in his prime. Why was he familiar? A patient angry over his bill? Grieving perhaps? “I’m sorry if you feel…” he floundered for a word that would not escalate the situation. “That you feel cheated in your time of need, my boy. Sadly, medical supplies do not fall from the sky and I, too, must put food on my table. You… you do understand?”

“Oh, I understand fine.”

“That is good,” the doctor said with a forced smile. Companionably he added, “These are troubled times.”

“Seems to me you took yerself a hypocritical oath.”

“Hipp-o- _cratic_ ,” Thompson corrected indignantly. Stupid, ignorant…

“You disgust me,” the young man said, prowling closer still. He looked Thompson up and down and tsked with a sorry shake of his head. “A big high roller like you… all them chips and fine brandy… wringing orphans an’ widows to feed yer appetites.”

“What I do with my hard-earned money is none of your concern, mister.”

“Earned?” He chuckled. “Sure. Let’s look at it that way. Only… I hear tell that greed can, uh, be hazardous to one’s health.”

“Are… are you threatening me?”

The man pulled the cigarette from his mouth. “I am advisin’ you,” he insisted. He dropped the smoke to the ground and stamped it out, fists clenched. “Fer example, I am advisin’ you to ease up on what yer chargin’ that young lady doctor. Gamblin’ is near impossible if yer brains are scrambled.”

Cornelius took a step back. Lady doctor? That silly girl. She certainly did not fool him with her little angel of mercy act… but this thick-headed thug? His sort would fall for a sob story from a pretty skirt in a heart-beat.

Doctor Thompson decided to screw his courage to the sticking place and try to cow this… blustering boy.

“Did Miss Griswold put you up to this, son?”

“I ain’t yer son,” the younger man corrected, taking one last menacing step. Fast as a gunslinger he snagged Cornelius’ throat in one large hand, locking him in place. His other fist drawn back and ready. Cornelius could not help but flinch. “An’ I promise she don’t know ‘bout this little… consultation.”

“But… but…” Cornelius gripped and clawed at the hand and the brute shook him like dog with a rat until his bones rattled.

“If she were to find out…well,” the young man carried on, tightening his grip so that breathing began to hurt. He reeked of gun oil and horses. “I’ll see she ends up bein’ the _only_ game in town.”

Cornelius swallowed. “I…I have friends.”

The stranger chuffed a laugh. “So?” He looked over his meaty shoulder and then off in the distance beyond before bringing his cold eyes back to Cornelius’ face. “Seems none of ‘em are here, Doc. But I am. And yer startin’ to annoy me.”

Cornelius nodded dumbly.

“We have an understanding?” the bully pressed.

“Yes…” the doctor stammered. “You’ve made your point!”

The man let go and Cornelius dropped into a heap. The cool dirt under his palms a strange comfort as he struggled to control his breath.

“So yer gonna ease up on them prices,” the thug reiterated, forcefully dragging Cornelius back to his feet, punctuating his demands with reminders of his brutal strength. “At least where Doctor Emelia’s concerned.”

“Well, I…”

“Please,” he growled, smoothing out the doctor’s lapels, a belying gesture. “You do _not_ want to annoy me.”

“No! No… Doctor Griswold will get her supplies at cost.”

“That’s good.” The young man smiled. “Real good.” He laid a large hand on the older man’s shoulder and gave a squeeze that was anything but a comfort, his grip like iron. “You have yerself a nice evenin’, Doc.”

Thompson watched as the man sauntered away before turning on his heel. He staggered back the way he came. Back into the light and buzz of the Saloon and ordered a shot of bourbon.


	14. Sparking

They skipped the morning walk, going straight to the saddle after the grooming and under Arthur’s careful hand Emelia’s confidence climbed in humble increments. She learned to ‘sit the seat’ in a trot, to move with Bella and to know when to give up control and grant full motion.

Then, one morning Emelia noticed a second saddle on the railing. She gave Bella the bulk of her attention, brushing down her silvery coat and plaited a little braid in the mare’s mane. She tied it with a little blue ribbon, before setting the soft blue blanket and dark saddle on Bella’s back. Emelia tried to ignore that Arthur tacked his cool-headed mare. When they were done, Emelia pulled herself into the saddle and as she set her skirt, Arthur politely opened the gate for them. Emelia grinned before he even said a word and she could feel it under her, in the way Belladonna flexed and pawed eagerly at the sand and playfully bobbed her head, that she too, was excited.

“So, Emma,” Arthur said, pulling himself into the saddle in a graceful, measured way. He took the reins into his left hand, while his right hung loose at his side. “You feelin’ up to getting out o’ here?”

Emelia schooled her response, trying to present a more composed countenance. “If you feel I’m ready, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur’s lips turned in that lazy smile and he motioned to the gate. “After you, darlin’.”

They kept to a walk and exited Blackwater proper before cueing the horses to a quicker pace. The sun was just waking, burning up the weak fog rolling off the lake. Without a cloud in the rosy sky, the day promised to be clear and bright with only the faintest wind. Arthur selected a path that led out of the Flat Iron valley, to the gentle sloping hills of the great golden plains.

“Best get movin’ if you want them poppies, darlin’,” he remarked casually.

“You… want to go fetch them now?”

“No time like the present.” Arthur chuckled. “Tinctures need time.”

Emelia could not help but smile at his willingness.

They broke from the roads, getting the horses to a nice lopping gait, and the very notion felt like rebellion to Emelia. She left her mother’s home back in February, had traveled across the country, west and south, searching. For purpose and validation… and emancipation. As she rode at Arthur’s side, ignoring the road and traveling across lots, under that wide blue sky, Emelia felt free. All while wondering what it would be like to ride behind him, pressed tight. Her arms around his trim waist and her cheek against that strong back…

She sighed. Her mother would certainly find the whole thing more than a little scandalous. A young unmarried woman out with an unmarried ‘common’ man. Unchaperoned. Emelia could not keep her thoughts from wandering to curious, sensual things.

They came to a quiet meadow seated at the edge of a gorge that cut deep into the land like a scar. The Montana River roared steady over rapids at the bottom, throwing up a fine mist. Arthur dismounted, sliding from the saddle. Landing with a light thud. The ground around his feet afire with delicate, tissue-like petals on thin stems.

“If memory serves me right,” Arthur began, strolling among the blazing flowers toward her. They came to his knees. A silvery dew still coated the earth, glittering and glistening, coating his boots. “Yer gonna need the whole plant.”

“You are correct, Mr. Morgan,” she said, watching him. How the blue of his shirt contrasted against the blazing orange and yellow all around him. Bringing out his eyes and making his skin and hair seem so vital. Her mouth went dry. “Some… um… prime specimens and…” she flushed and checked her notes. “A bottle of moonshine?”

Arthur chuckled. “Sounds like a party,” he said, and Emelia blushed and fretted that he must certainly have begun to think her complexion a natural shade of red. Arthur reached up for her, fingers beckoning, to help her down. Emelia bit her lip, trying to quell her smile, carefully drawing her leg over Bella and slid down into the waiting strength of his arms.

“Well, let’s find ya two or three to start,” he advised, easing her to the ground. “We’ll want no signs of rot or any nibblin’.”

They collected three, with a good assortment of flowers and buds. Arthur pulled them from the ground with a steady patience, wiggling back and forth, back and forth, loosening the precious roots. Shaking the soil free and wrapping the entire plant in cloth before storing them into her saddle bags.

“Are you in a hurry,” she asked as he secured the buckles. “To get back?”

“Not terribly,” he said.

“I just want to make a few notes. About this spot and the climate, and the flowers themselves. And what is growing around them.”

“Why?”

“Science, I suppose. My own curiosity,” she smiled and blushed. “For my own memories.”

He nodded. “Take yer time. I’ll, uh… just check on the horses.”

Emelia settled down in the tall grass and poppies and watched him saunter off through the field, admiring the strange relaxed swaying grace of his gait. She pulled her attention back to the poppies with their tall and alternating branching with blue-green foliage. The flowers swayed solitary on each long silk stem. She noted, when they first arrived, that the petals had been closed. Now they had opened, their long broad petals a little explosion of vibrant warmth, all yellow and orange and red. She wished she had some way to capture their hue.

She heard the soft thud and clink of his steps as Arthur returned to her. The shadows had swung a bit and perhaps it was time to go. “I think I found you a few good ones,” he said. She looked up at him, finding he had a fistful of flowers. Foot long spikes coated in compressed spirals of bright ultra-blue pea-like flowers. The colour of his shirt. The leaves were soft green and covered in silvery fuzz.

Emelia gasped. “For me?”

The cowboy shrugged, so bashful. Arthur could not hide under his hat, standing over her like he was.  “Bluebonnets,” he explained gruffly. “They don’t do nothin’. Just smell nice an’ look pretty. I thought… maybe…” Arthur held them out to her.

Once a week she would get flowers. Great bouquets of roses and lilies and all manner of glass house offerings arranged haughtily by self-proclaimed artists of foliage. Mr. Talbot would bring her these bouquets over the long, supervised courtship. She accepted them politely and he would place a cool kiss on her knuckle. She would arrange them and watch them wilt over time and wish she could feel something, anything other than dread.

Emelia accepted the simple bunch of bluebonnets. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Morgan,” she said, taking a breath of their fresh, clean scent and decided right there that she could be content with anything he could offer. “They’re lovely!”

“Yer welcome,” he replied with a small nod of his head. Arthur cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable and nodded to her journal. “Whatchu got there?”

She looked down at her lap and remembered. “I’m trying to draw this flower,” she said, gesturing to a cluster of poppies. Emelia held the journal up, closer to the plant and tilted her head. No, even at that angle it was still not quite right.

“Oh yeah?”

“For my own notes,” Emelia explained. She huffed. “Only, I’m afraid it’s not turning out quite accurate. I have many skills, but botanical illustration is not one of them.”

“May I,” he asked, extending a hand. Emelia looked up at him, trying to guess at what he was playing at, but handed over the journal and lead. Arthur settled down next to her and set the journal against his drawn-up right thigh. He flipped to a clean page and, to Emilia’s surprised delight, put pencil to paper.

Emelia grinned. “You draw?”

“More than just irons,” he said with a little smirk.

She watched for a few moments. Arthur’s head tilted to the page, gaze flicking from flower to paper. Before too long, her curiosity got the best of her and she crowded in close. The scent of soap, leather and… something faintly oily, metallic and masculine greeted her too. Emilia breathed deep and leaned in closer still and found Arthur had indeed captured her flower. Even working quickly, his rendering remained accurate and the distinguishing features clear. He had written the word ‘ _Eschscholzia Californica’_ next to it in a handsome cursive, right leaning and coiling prefect as garland.

“Oh, Mr. Morgan,” she breathed, staring at the drawing. Arthur’s hand stilled. She looked at him, truly surprised. “You’re an artist!”

Color flooded those windburned cheeks, and Emelia’s smile widened at the sight of it. Arthur cleared his throat and tried to marshal something of his rough cowboy persona. “Whoa now,” he said. “Don’t go gettin’ all hysterical.”

“No,” she said softly. “Really. It’s beautiful.”

Arthur chuckled. “Cut it out,” he said. “It’s hard enough workin’ with an audience.”

“Could you also draw them in an earlier stage?” she asked. Anything to stay this close to him, watching. “Like how they were this morning? All closed? Please?”

He stared at her. Close enough that she could see the soft gold around his irises. The tiny flecks of brown in the pretty pale blue. Heat bloomed in her chest. Her pulse rose, and Emelia dropped her gaze, first to his lips and then away completely, unable to stand the warmth rising in her face.

Arthur continued to watch her and Emelia took a breath and spoke very softly. “Mr. Morgan?”

“Yeah?” he asked, sounding just as lost.

“The drawing?”

“Uh. Sure, darlin’,” Arthur replied, his voice hoarse.

Cautiously, she looked at him again, through her lashes. His gaze back to the journal, setting to the treasured task. The birds twittering and the soft scraping of the lead on paper.

“Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” she breathed.

Arthur’s hand stilled. For a moment they listened to the soft breath of wind in the prairie poppies and golden grass, the lilting songs of the birds. In the loaded silence Arthur took a breath and asked; “What’s it gonna take to get you to use my name?”

She lifted her gaze then to find him looking pointedly at her, his mouth set in a hard line and wondered how to articulate it. Arthur was fifteen years her senior and despite a lack of formal education or breeding or wealth or any of the other things she had been told her entire life mattered, she adored no one more.

“Emma?” he prompted.

How does a girl begin to tell a man so experienced and practical and weary that she had gone and fallen in love? Without sounding like a love-sick ninny? A man who had taken her under wing and opened the world to her, equiping her with the final tools needed for success?

“I’m afraid,” she confessed.

Arthur’s mouth twisted slightly, and blinking, he looked away, hiding his eyes under the brim of that damn hat. “Okay.”

He felt the same. Emelia knew it sure as she knew the bones of the human body. In the way Arthur could not look at her too long, even though his body remained always turned to her, like a flower tracking the sun. In the undercurrent of their conversations, the meaningful pauses, and tightness of his voice.

That was more frightening by far and formality was the last barrier, fragile though it was.

“I… want things when I’m with you,” Emelia admitted. “Things I had been prepared to give up, to prove myself a doctor.”

Arthur brought his gaze back to her then. “Yer a doctor,” he declared. “A damn fine one at that.”

Emelia sighed and smiled. “You have this funny habit of saying the perfect things at the right time.”

“Simple enough to get the truth right.”

Arthur had no fortune and no family, and he remained, at least in her naïve estimation, a wonderful, precious thing. A diamond in the rough. She stared at her hands in her lap and tried to still her nerves.

“I… I’m fairly certain I love you, Mr. Morgan,” she said.

Arthur nodded gravely. “It scares me too,” he said, his rough voice fraying a little.

Emelia could feel the phantom memory of some great loss settling over him like fog. The pained tightness around his eyes, the heaviness of his movements and she wanted nothing more than to sooth him. “Why?”

Arthur stared at Emelia, studying her face, for a long moment. He took a breath. “It… don’t matter,” he said, seemingly decided. “Not really. Point is, you got me wantin’ to give it a shot again, regardless…”

“I… I do?”

He nodded. A small smile graced his lips, softening his face. “You do.”

Arthur leaned in and time seemed to slow. He kissed her forehead first, the tickling press of warmth and stubble. Then he tilted her chin up with the soft touch of a knuckle and pressed his lips to hers. Emelia sighed. His kiss, like everything else about him, was complex; an intricate blend of coarse edges and gentle intent.

They carried on for several long minutes, with this easy-going sparking. The tender sliding of Arthur’s firm lips over hers encouraged a strange tingling heat to pool in Emelia’s belly. She did not know what it was, or even what to do with her hands, afraid to fall further into him. One braced against the grass while the other came to rest against Arthur’s solid chest, near the opening of his collar, fisting his shirt. Arthur gently cradled the back of her neck, his callused thumb caressing her cheek. He did not let go even once they paused. Emelia sighed again, a little light headed. Her eyes fluttered open and she stared up into Arthur’s hooded gaze. Dark lashes and glassy blue.

 “Are you courting me, Mr. Morgan?” she asked dreamily. She bit her lip and then amended, softly. “Arthur?”

He smiled, slow and handsome. “If you’ll have me.”

Emelia giggled. “Yes,” she declared, recklessly hopeful. Arthur hummed deep in his throat before pulling her in for another round of lingering kisses.


	15. What Matters

By late morning, the common room of the Althewaye Inn was sparsely populated. Hosea had taken a seat by the window, one that looked out onto Van Horn Street. He sipped his coffee and watched through the white lace drapes as Arthur and Miss Emelia walked passed.

Emelia Griswold. A scion of a great American family. Interest in steel and rail and the manufacture of warships. A pack of filthy industrialists for certain. Hosea would not have known it to look at her. Living the modest life of a physician. Walking hand clasped with an outlaw, all blush and smiles. The top of the little brunette’s head came just to Arthur’s shoulder and she looked at him the way only a girl in love can. Eyes soft and wanting, adoration plain as can be.

And Arthur. This girl brought out a gentleness in the snarly enforcer that Hosea feared long scarred over. The couple turned down Main Street, strolling at an unhurried pace in the sunshine, no doubt on their way to the Surgery. Once he lost sight of them, Hosea turned his attention to the week’s copy of the Blackwater Ledger and waited. The Founder’s Day Celebrations were fast approaching, and Hosea noted the dates of the events. Some of the gang could use the distractions to their own advantages.

Finally, the bell above the door chimed. The conversations died abruptly a beat as the newcomer was assessed by the locals. Hosea looked up from the Ledger and nodded to Arthur.

“Spring is in the air,” Hosea remarked, reaching for his coffee, as Arthur took a seat at the table.

“It is April,” the enforcer said cautiously. A waitress poured him a cup and he nodded in thanks.

“It is,” Hosea allowed. The old man’s lips twitched in a smile. “Is this going to become a distraction?”

Arthur looked at him. “It ain’t interfering with our business,” he said.

“Not yet,” Hosea said in warning. “Have you given it any thought as to how this might end?”

The younger man nodded, drawing his thumb against his clean-shaven jaw. “Thought about little else, to be honest.”

As serious as Hosea suspected. “She doesn’t strike me as the type to aspire to a life of migrancy.”

“Bessie weren’t no different,” Arthur reasoned.

“No… she wasn’t,” Hosea conceded with a small chuckle. He smiled fondly at the thought of his dearly departed wife. His little Carnation. So much younger. Revitalizing and hopeful and doggedly kind. “She loved me too,” Hosea said. “Encouraged me to be better. Gentler.”

Arthur nodded. It needed not be said what they were really talking about. The seriousness of the potential commitment. “An’ you brought her ‘round,” the younger man pressed. “It was a long time ago, sure, but I remember. She sure could play them dominos.”

“We were different then,” Hosea said. Campfires and the great dark, glittering sky. His arm around his young wife. Roistering with his best friend and the young unruly kid who was like a son. “Easier for her to turn a blind eye to the realities. Still, she wanted me out.”

“You had left,” Arthur conceded. “But it weren’t too long, as I recall.”

“More than once,” Hosea said. He chuckled. “I kept drifting back to it, and she stood by me. The woman had the patience of a Saint. But there was one time I almost did it, probably the time you’re remembering. She wanted to try for a baby.”

Hosea and Elizabeth Matthews moved into a small cabin, in the lush heartlands of New Hanover, just south of Valentine. Bessie had loved the name so much she didn’t care the rumors of massacres or Indian curses. Hosea picked up odd jobs around the small town to make ends meet. Helping the bartender prepare the evening lunch and caring for the grounds of the old wooden church. The irony. Mending fences and hiring on to help with the shearing. Bessie cleaned rooms at the Saint’s Hotel and maintained a little garden.

Life was humble. Far duller than living life in the Flash and Hosea missed the challenge of the plan and the thrill of the execution. Thinking on his feet and encountering new people and playing different parts.

But life was good, too. Unpretentious and safe.

They had food in the pantry and a humble roof over their heads and a very, very warm bed. When her courses stopped, and Bessie started to gain weight, their happiness tripled. He remembered still, how she glowed. The blush of her skin and shine in her strawberry gold hair. How her viridian eyes gleamed.

Bessie stitched little robes, some in blue, some in a soft rose. She knit socks and little hats by her own hand, from wool bought in Valentine. Singing lullabies and Hosea could not help but marvel at her industry and her joyful excitement.

“I’ll be happy with anything, so long as it’s healthy,” she said. And then… it all ended with a sickness so sudden and insidious. She went to the doctor with a headache. She died a week later. Dead at twenty-five.

It was supposed to be him. Not her. Hosea knew he would do it all again. An ounce of pleasure was worth a pound of pain.

“Yeah…,” Arthur said, subdued. “I remember.”

“But now?” Hosea asked rhetorically. “I don’t think it would be the same.” Arthur could only nod in agreement. “We’ve gotten too big. Taken on too many personalities.”

“Yeah… things have changed some. That Micah,” Arthur said. “He’s hot-headed an’ as disagreeable as they come.”

An understatement. There was a sickness that lingered in Mr. Bell, fanned with a lack of prudence and an abundance of anger the likes Hosea had not seen.

“How Dutch ignores his behavior in camp I cannot fathom,” Hosea agreed. Conversation on the topic summarily shut down and written off as simply being what they had always done.

“How is this any different than when we found Arthur?” Dutch had asked when pressed. “Or John?”

“About thirty-nine years of nasty habit,” Hosea replied. That Micah felt entitled to Arthur’s place within the pecking order was worrisome indeed in a camp where respect was supposed to be earned.

“An’ them Callendar boys can get down right vicious,” Arthur continued.

“Like mean old coonhounds, certainly,” Hosea agreed. “And just as loyal.”

“Well, that’s true at least. They’ll come to heel if asked.”

They both lapse into a silence. Both know they are no longer what they once were. No more charitable donations. No more distinction as to who might be too poor or decent to rob. The loaning too lucrative to pass up, no matter all Dutch’s talk of the indignity of it.

“Does your lady know what you are?” Hosea asked his one-time protégé, changing the subject.

“Naw,” Arthur said. He cleared his throat and looked into his coffee cup. “She, uh… well, she patches people up after runnin’ into the likes of me.”

“Hm. Not like you to shrink from the truth.”

“It’s just… well,” Arthur leaned back in his chair. His right hand remained on the table, picking at the grain in the wood. “The Truth ain’t never done me any favors. At least not where this sorta thing is concerned. Mary knew what I was an’… well.” He shrugged. “We know how that turned out.”

Mary Gillis. Off to the chapel before the boy even had a chance to seek gainful employment. Hosea had not been there, but Dutch recounted the tale well enough. She’d kept Arthur’s ring and sent him but a single brief letter.

Hosea returned to the gang for good shortly after. They welcomed him back with open arms. Dutch had a new favorite in little Johnny Marston and Arthur… Arthur had grown even more withdrawn. Every few months the young man would disappear for a couple of weeks. He would take his earnings and return poor as a church mouse and hungry for work. They robbed their first bank around that time. Arthur never said where he got too, and Hosea did not press.

“Whiskey and whores,” Dutch had guessed. Trying to forget the woman he lost to civilization, perhaps, and Dutch happily foisted all the blame on the restrictions of polite society. For years Arthur maintained his strange habit and then perhaps not quite ten years ago he suddenly stopped. The enforcer grew more cynical and bitter. Arthur’s tithing to the gang’s coffers tripled and Dutch extolled the young man’s dedication. Reveled in it, in fact. From there, Dutch found more angry desperate youths. Gathering the hungry, the scared, the lonely…   

This lady doc was none of those things.

“Besides,” Arthur said quietly, and Hosea noted the decided sound of misery that rallied in Arthur’s rough voice. “We…I robbed the poor girl twice over.”

“You’re being a fool,” Hosea said bluntly. “But not for love. The heart is an unreasonable thing so there’s no helping that. It’s the lying that’s stupid.”

“Yeah,” Arthur agreed numbly.

“You won’t be able to build anything with her if there’s lies in the foundation. Truth, Arthur. It’s as important as love. In this world, when two people don’t lie to each other. Well… you can accomplish great, great things.”

“I know, I know,” the younger man said. “I’m tryin’ to work it out. Can we please just focus on somethin’ else right now?”

Hosea stared at him a moment. Reading the line of Arthur’s shoulders, the way he hung his head like a boy chastised and Hosea felt mollified that the advice had, at very least, been truly heard.

He took a sip of his coffee and then said, “Got an interesting lead from a local clerk. Goes by the name of Aldous Worthington.”

“Yeah… think I heard that name mentioned ‘round the tables,” Arthur replied. “Weren’t anything too nice.”

“Kid seems to think the mayor has his fingers in quite a few pies.”

“Oh yeah?” Arthur asked.

“Real estate and insurance. A few upstanding gentlemen in town are on the take. Selling bogus deeds and policies.”

“How are they managin’ to ‘sell’ it in the first place?”

“Taking advantage of either a poor command of English or flat out illiteracy. Fudging paperwork on mortgages so the bank can foreclose. Insurance that conveniently goes to the town rather than the widows… Legal documents can be a noose all their own if a poor feller doesn’t know what to look for.”

“Seems a good ol’ hold up is more honest.”

“And less lucrative.”

“Yeah… well,” Arthur did not seem convinced. “What’s this little do-gooder want then? Seems awfully strange he’d tip us off. Why not just go to the law?”

“It seems the honorable mayor has the Blackwater police in his back pocket.”

“This town is as crooked as a dog’s hind leg.”

The silvered conman smiled at his younger partner’s assessment. “It is. And that’s what makes this so rewarding. Think about it, Arthur. Getting a chance to rob some crooks, just the two of us.”

Maybe even give some of it back to them that needed it most.  


	16. Trust Me, Darlin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monday, April 10, 1899. Emelia puts it together…

So sweet a thing, to be in love.

Emelia’s family would be cross, when she finally wrote them. And she would have to write them soon, she knew. They would ring a storm over her head and probably disinherit her for choosing her own path. She also knew, with all the reckless invincibility of a girl in love, that Arthur Morgan would be worth any price they imposed upon her.

What price could ever be placed on bringing a smile to that handsome, weathered face? To have the privilege of being at his side or holding those rough, hardened hands? Arthur warmed to her and gave of himself, speaking of everything and nothing and she recognized something in him transcendent and primal. Living under the open sky and drinking the wild air, Arthur possessed a charmed luck for encountering strange folk and getting enfolded in their tribulations.

And the kissing. Oh, what an ardent little indulgence that became. She had not known it could be a pleasure unto itself and with growing curiosity Emelia wondered what more Arthur could awaken in her. Enough to keep her up at night and fuel her fantasies and self-exploration.

A knock on her door at the hotel roused her from her sleep. The window still black with night. Emelia pulled on a dressing robe and cracked open the door to the dimly lit hallway. A lanky young man stood out in the hall.

“Hello?”

“Miss Doctor?”

“Yes…?”

“Sorry, miss,” he croaked, and his face turned red. “Yer needed.”

“Where?” Emelia asked simply, pulling her robe tighter around her.

“It’s a homestead, a ranch,” he said, Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “A ways off the main trail to the North, towards Strawberry.”

“Can you tell me anything more?”

“Girl’s pregnant,” he said. “Messenger said somethin’s wrong an’ they afeared a losing both.”

“Thank you,” she said. Emelia almost had the door closed when he spoke up.

“Countryside’s gotten real dangerous to travel, miss,” the young man explained, his voice cracking. “What with outlaws roamin’ ‘bout as they are. You got ah… a feller to ride with you?”

Emelia thought of that first night ride. In that dead down pour. Of how lost she was. Now, here she was. On a dead dark night. Going further than she had ever gone. In territory that only grown more dangerous since her arrival in town.

 “Yes,” she said, nodding. “One moment.” She retrieved a nickel from her desk and handed it to him. “Go to the Inn and ask for Arthur Morgan. Tell him what you’ve told me, that I require an escort and ask him to meet me at the stables if he would be so kind.”

“Um, sure, miss. Thank you.”

As she dressed, Emelia tried not to remember. The way that large outlaw loomed over her and Clem, and how her heart seemed to beat in her throat. How he kept that pistol leveled, steely calm, holding her life in his hands. She never again wanted a gun in her face.

Emelia felt a twinge of embarrassment when she saw Arthur in the stable yard at so early an hour and wished she had not needed to disturb him. He came prepared, Boadicea already tacked and waiting, the gleaming barrels of a rifle and a shotgun strapped to the saddle. He wore a tan oiled-canvas coat.

“Arthur,” she whispered.

 “Emma,” he said, closing the distance between them. His hand curled around the back of her neck and swiped a slow caress across her cheek with his thumb. An earnest, intimate greeting, and Emelia reached up and palmed the back of his hand.

“Oh, Arthur,” she sighed. “I apologize. I know this is an ungodly hour and I feel so, so terrible asking this of you-”

“It’s alright’,” he said soothingly, kissing her forehead. The strangely heartening scent of tobacco and gun-oil clung to the black kerchief around his neck. “I’m here.”

Arthur helped tack Bella and secured the heavy bags and their precious cargo, working quickly in silence, focused. When he came around to lift her to the saddle, Emelia stopped him. A hand over his heart and the other resting against his cheek.

“Thank you, Arthur,” she said, taking a moment to stare up into his blue eyes before rising on the tips of her toes. Arthur bent to meet her. Her hands slid up his firm chest, past the thick neckerchief hanging so loose and found the opening of his collar and Emelia laid her fingers along the graceful column of his warm throat. Arthur practically purred under her cautious touch and Emelia smiled against his lips.

They broke reluctantly and Arthur lifted her easily to the saddle. He aided her in adjusting her riding skirt, so it draped prettily on Bella’s flanks and smiled up at her.

“All set, my lady.”

It was early April and the moon was but a dark inky shadow in the sky. They left Blackwater and the electric lights behind them, riding off into the cool, clear night. Emelia worried still, about her riding, and her attention remained firmly on the road ahead of Bella and the golden light cast by the little glass lantern Arthur carried. After an hour, as they crested a hill and Blackwater could no longer be seen, Arthur snuffed out the light.

“Arthur?” she asked, startled. She looked to him for an answer.

He said nothing. Just tipped his head to the sky. Then her eyes adjusted and she noticed it was not dark at all and Emelia lost her breath. The great yawning vastness over their heads turned a midnight blue to match the depths of a royal sapphire and the stars, oh, the stars! Gathered thick as a stream across the sky.

No false light. No one for miles…

She sensed the sidling of Boadicea, heard the soft thudding somewhere far away and instinctively Emelia reached for Arthur and felt his rough, warm hand envelop hers. Just them and their horses, the sky and earth. She gazed at that glittering immensity, feeling so very small, and yet empowered to do great things. Good things.

Emelia sighed. “I wish I could take a picture of this.”

“I know,” Arthur replied.

Emelia looked at Arthur, hand still gripped within his own and found him gazing at her. His simple smile charmingly askew. Emelia blushed and averted her gaze, still uncertain how to respond adequately to such clear ardor. She tightened her grip on his fingers. Boadicea sidestepped closer still and Arthur stood in his stirrups. Pulling her hand to his chest, Arthur leaned across the tiny chasm between their mares, over her and kissed her. Oh, how he kissed. All warm and lingering like a shot of whiskey and deceivingly chaste. Emelia licked her lips with a contented little hum as he settled back into his seat.

Why had she ever worried that the demands of her practice would preclude anything like this? Here they were, riding to a house call in the dark pre-dawn and Arthur managed to carve out a timeless moment from nothing.

They continued at a clipping pace after that, making excellent time. Eventually they came to that same gorge, the one that cut near the poppy meadow, only now they descended the rocky path, winding their way to the waterway below. They crossed the river, the water frothing around the horses and splashing up on Emelia’s face and she allowed Bella a little more rein, trusting the little mare to keep her footing and to follow old Boadicea through the current. They started back up the other side, between copses of trees when she heard a chilling sound from the shadows.

“Hold it right there,” called a deep voice.

Arthur drew to a stop and Emelia followed suit though Belladonna whinnied and crept nervously.

“We’re just passin’ through,” Arthur said firmly. “Doc here has a patient waitin’ just a little further up. She’s expected.”

“An’ we want no trouble,” the man replied. She saw him now. Wearing a green vest and a mud-spattered overcoat. He carried a shot gun in his hands, pointed at the ground. “Just drop yer guns, friends, and dismount.”

“Why?”

The man huffed and tightened the grip on his gun. “Sos we can kindly empty yer pockets.”

“Oh,” Arthur asked drily. “Is that all?”

The man’s gaze flicked from Arthur to Emelia. He hesitated a moment. “Yeah. That’s all.”

“Naw.” Arthur decided with a firm shake of his head. He subtly cued Boadicea, coming between Emelia and Bella and the robber, a shield of flesh. The dark Andalusian snorted and stomped irritably, feeding off her rider’s darkening mood. “Yer gonna step outta the way, buddy. Now.”

“This here is our crossin’,” the man replied more forcefully, and he cocked the gun, trying to hold on to an advantage.

“Lookee here, darlin’,” Arthur drawled, oddly charming. “We got ourselves a tough guy. Last chance tough guy!”

A nervous smile tugged at Emelia’s lips and worry fluttered in her stomach. “How can you be sarcastic at a time like this?”

“Look at him,” Arthur replied, gesturing caustically to the ravenous looking man. Arthur’s voice grew steadily harder, mocking. Strangely familiar. And Emelia felt only more anxious.

“Just do as yer told, idiot,” came another voice. Emelia followed the sound to see an older man with a rifle. He stood close enough to take her reins., Close enough that she saw his gold tooth and the straw-like coloring of his stringy hair and whiskers. His nose suffered from rosacea. “Don’t be getting brave.”

“Christ…” Arthur replied. His head tilted this way and that as he spoke, pinpointing them. His right hand hung casually at his side, near that low-slung revolver. Ready.  “Yer not leavin’ me with much option. To the detriment of yer own health, might I add.”

The pistol. The scarred black leather hat. His dark horse. The cold fury of his voice and the tense situation…

It snapped together, suddenly, like a jig-saw. The blue-eyed outlaw. What had started to feel like a lifetime ago came back to her, sudden and vivid. A spark of indignant anger kindled. Fear and humiliation followed.

The rifleman moved for Bella’s reins and the Arabian reared up to kick him. A loud pop. Emelia gripped the horn for all she was worth, standing in her stirrups and leaned into Bella’s neck just like Arthur taught her.

Another pop. Her ears rang, and Bella rose up again with a squeal, and again Emelia gripped that horn and leaned forward, her legs burning. A quick dash followed, forcing Emelia to hold on for dear life.

Emelia squeezed her legs together, struggling to keep herself calm, “Easy, Bella. Easy…”

The little Arabian skid to a stop and paced nervously, tossing her head, eyes wild.

“Shhhh, easy…” Emelia cooed, patting the curved neck. She saw they dashed several meters and back across the river.

Smoke drifted on the breeze and the acrid scent of gunpowder tickled her nose. Her heart pounded and she raked the area with her gaze, searching for Arthur and his mount and Emelia breathed a sigh of relief, despite all, at the sight of them. He remained balanced and alert in his seat, Boadicea prancing in a quick, tight circle. Both hale.

As she and Bella returned, she heard the pained bellowing. The rifleman groaned. Emelia’s gaze dropped to the dark shape, clutching his belly. Arthur spurred his mare forward, the revolver in hand gleaming. Drawing up close. Emelia flinched with the orange flash and ear-ringing pop that followed. The man fell still and then…

She heard the thudding of foot falls. A third man ran off up the road, perhaps no more than thirty yards, legs pumping. Arthur holstered the pistol and in one fluid motion swung the rifle from his shoulder. Took aim and without an ounce of hesitation squeezed the trigger.

“No,” Emelia cried as the shot cracked and the echo reverberated in the small gorge. The runner’s skull popped. The body staggered and dropped like a sack of flour.

Emelia dismounted.

Arthur sighed heavily. “What’re you doin’?”

“Seeing if I can help, Mr. Morgan,” she replied tightly, working at the saddle straps on her satchel.

“They ain’t gettin’ up, Emma,” Arthur said, so much softer now. Like two different people.

“I…” she started. Emelia watched the steadily creeping darkness around the bodies. The eerie stillness of them. She looked back to the cool buckles of her satchel and her fingers stilled, feeling numb. “No… I… I suppose you are right. Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur remained quiet for a moment, and she could not bear to look at him, suddenly afraid. Tears prickled her eyes and she wondered how, how she had not recognized him sooner. How?

“Were you actually gonna do it?” he asked coarsely. “Try an’ help ‘em, I mean. After all that?”

Emelia forced her gaze to travel up the strong black legs of the blood bay mare. To the man she loved, looming over her from his vantage point in the saddle. Took in the wide spread of those shoulders and his menacing posture and wondered how something so intimidating could become so beloved. Emelia’s eyes watered and she struggled to swallow the lump in her throat.

“He wanted to rob you,” Arthur pressed without a shred of remorse and it only confirmed what he was. Emelia grit her teeth against the irony. “Would have left you for dead or…or… worse.”

“Perhaps,” she squeaked.

“Perhaps?” he parroted, the sarcasm heavily present in his twang. “Lucky fer you I ain’t in a gambling mood!”

“I guess we’ll never know,” Emelia said primly with a sniff.

“You serious?”

“Dreadfully serious,” she snipped, bringing her hands to her hips. “You didn’t shoot me!”

“What?”

_Oh, now you’ve done it, Emma._

She could not see his eyes, shrouded as they were in the gloom and shadow of that black hat, but she saw everything else. The strange sudden hardness of his mouth. The way he sat up a little straighter, a little more alert, as if hit with a current. “You didn’t shoot me when you robbed me. You didn’t leave me for dead. Or _…or worse_.”

Silence.

Emelia carefully watched the silhouette of the hat drop, as he hung his head, not looking at her anymore.

“Well?” she prompted.

“I only shoot them that need shootin’,” came the callous reply and Emelia felt her blood boil at the flippancy of it. At how aberrant it sounded coming out of his mouth now that she knew him. She thought she knew him…

“And I didn’t _need shooting_ , Mr. Morgan?”

A moment of silence. His lip curled scornfully. “No.”

“But Clem did?”

He looked up at that. “Hey now,” he snapped, his voice regaining some of that nasty potential volume. “He cocked a _shotgun_! Woulda shot me or -!”

“Because you were robbing his clients! Robbing _me_!”

“Well…” Arthur stammered, having the decency to concede the facts. “Sure, but…”

“But what?” Emelia demanded.  “What use would he have for a shotgun if not for _you_?”

“It weren’t personal…”

“You could have _killed_ him!”

“He got lucky,” Arthur agreed, and it gave her no comfort. He had not been alone, she remembered.

“And you’re in a gang,” she continued, and he rolled his shoulder as if uncomfortable and he tried to look away. “ _A gang!_ Like the Wild Bunch? Or the Jack Hall Gang? How many people have you done this to?”

She met only more sullen, infuriating silence.

“You shot Clem and… and pulled a gun on me! Just for wanting to help! And then you… you…” She ran her fingers through her hair and tried to reconcile this horrible turn of events with who she thought he was. “And… and you work for Strauss?” she managed to ask. “How… how are you any better than the corrupt politicians and industrialists you so loath?”

“It… don’t normally go that way,” he said, lamely. “I absolved you soon as I could.”

“That is small comfort, Mr. Morgan,” she said piteously. “Do you grant everyone the same mercy?”

“No,” he admitted. Honest and forthcoming late though it was.  “I usually… well…” Arthur sighed, the corners of his mouth turned down in a grimace. He nodded, as if in acceptance. “I’m not a good man.”

Her eyes stung, and her belly trembled nervously, and Emelia saw it now, how the horses picked up on their emotions for certain. How their ears flattened, and they pawed the earth, anxious. And right now, she did not care. For the first time in her life, Emelia feared that her mother, and conventional wisdom, had been right. This man had robbed her three times over. Stolen her money twice and her _heart_. Oh, and still, _still_ she loved him…

_Stupid, stupid girl._

“Was it all a game?” she cried. The lessons and the meaningful conversations and all his kindness. “Everything I thought we shared? And the… the…”

Emelia touched her lips. Remembering that first kiss in the meadow. The desire it sparked inside her and the caresses that followed in the wake of it and she choked down a sob. How sweet it had all been. Oh, what a naïve little fool she turned out to be!

“Would ya let me explain?” he asked.

“No! I… I don’t have time for this,” Emelia interrupted quickly, shaking her head. No. She did not want to know. Afraid of what he might say. Another sob threatened as she pulled herself back into the saddle. “No. I am a doctor and I have a patient waiting for me.”

She gathered the reins and forced her head up higher and urged Bella into a trot just as the tears started in earnest. Her voice quivered violently. “Good evening, Mr. Morgan.”

“Come on now,” Arthur shouted. “You don’t know where yer goin’!”

Emelia resolutely ignored him and carried on up the road and he followed, heedless of her anger and sadness.

“You wanna hate me, fine,” Arthur called. The raw emotion tattering the edge of his voice made her pause. “Hate me. Lord knows you got plenty of reason. But please, darlin’, please don’t go gettin’ yerself killed over it.”

Emelia drew Bella to a halt, sniffling and miserable. She looked down the road, shrouded in the dark murky shadows of the trees and cliffside. Arthur was right and Emelia tilted her head back. To the stars overhead and the softening of color at the Eastern most edge, still feeling small and now so very stupid.

“How can I trust you?” she asked sadly, looking at him as he drew near.

“I regret not bein’ straight with you,” Arthur said, softer. He dared meet her gaze. “Soon as I figured things were growin’… serious, I shoulda come clean. I know it and I am sorry for it. Believe me. I am.”

Emelia choked down another sob and wiped at her eyes, struggling to maintain some dignity. Why did she have to recognize him at all?

“I won’t ask you to forgive me,” he said, sounding about as miserable as she felt. “But… please, Emma. Let me get you there.”

Emelia bit her lip, considering. She looked once more up the dark road, trying not to see the dead men. “Alright,” she finally said.

They trotted along, Arthur leading the way down the silvery road. He remained silent after that. Gone was the blustering grizzly bear from just moments earlier, from the way he hung his head, in what she wanted to believe was contrition. Emelia stayed a safe distance back, wiping her eyes and trying to breath despite the lump in her throat. Sick and dejected, watching the easy sway of his body in the saddle and feeling her heart twist inside her chest.


	17. When You Move, I'm Moved

They arrived as the sky grew hemmed in dusty rose and the birds began their chorus. A fine morning if not for Emelia’s clear and present displeasure. Eyes rimmed red and lips swollen from crying, she looked as if a loved one died.

Perhaps she felt like he had.

The ranch turned out to be a merino sheep operation, nestled in the foothills just north of the Upper Montana. Combination piled stone and log fences ran the lines of the property, hedging in flocks of fluffy mutton, ready for the shearing. The sheds and barns were of weathered, grey timber. The main house sat at the top of a little hill. Two stories, three windows across. A low hanging porch and deck along the side, with flower boxes loaded with herbs cluttering the railing. A stout fellow, chest like a barrel, in a brown cotton shirt dozed in a rocking chair. A pair of black and white sheepdogs picked up their heads as they approached and set to barking.

The man woke with a start and Arthur slid out of his saddle.

“Mornin’ folks,” the man hollered, friendly enough. He worked a kink out of his thick neck as he stood. “What brings you here?”

“Doctor Griswold,” Emelia supplied, dismounting. “From Blackwater.”

“Ah, welcome,” he said, brightening and coming down the steps. “Mr. Leonard Payne,” he said, extending his hand. He took in her appearance. “You alright, Miss?”

Emelia forced a smile to her face. “Yes, thank you. Merely a little shaken.”

“Oh?”

“We were accosted on the road,” she explained. “Bandits, down at the river crossing.”

“Oh,” Mr. Payne said. “Glad to see you came through unharmed, Doc.”

Emelia looked at Arthur. “Thanks to Mr. Morgan, my escort,” she said.

Mr. Payne also looked at Arthur and smiled. He nodded in vigorous approval. “A few less for the sheriff to worry about, I reckon?”

Arthur gave a single, modest nod.

“Well, my wife and I thank ya, Mister. Filthy bastards. Was their sort made my little girl a widow. Too, too young to be in such a way.”

Emelia looked at Arthur, biting her rosy lip. She said nothing, but a question lingered in her sad eyes all the same and he could not meet her gaze. _I don’t make widows_ , he wanted to say. _Not knowingly_.

“And where is my patient?” Emelia asked instead. 

“Coraline,” Mr. Payne explained. “She’s inside. Mrs. Fehr, local midwife you see, she started frettin’ about it bein’ turned ‘round an’ that a… well… she heard about you, Miss, and figured you’d be best if… if a…knife were needed.”

“While I’m certain Mrs. Fehr has good reason to take precaution, I sincerely hope I am not required.”

“Me too, Miss. Me too.”

Arthur had set himself to the task of unlatching the satchel as they talked. Hoping to make things as easy as possible.

“I can manage,” Emelia said, coming to his side. Arthur looked at her, blinking.

“You’re good an’ mad,” he said. “An’ I deserve every ounce of it. But this insistence on punishin’ yerself in the process is gettin’ downright silly.”

“I am perfectly capable of carrying my own equipment.”

“I do not doubt, darlin’,” Arthur replied softly. “I still ain’t gonna just stand here an’ watch you lug these sacks up them steps.”

Emelia stared at him a moment, crestfallen and miserable. Her eyes still misted and threatening tears, and he hated himself proper for it. “Alright,” she said with a small nod before heading into the house and leaving him to follow.

Payne looked at him sympathetically. “Suffragette?”

Arthur blinked. “Uh, sure. Somethin’ like that.”

He followed his lady into this fine warm home, like a wolf invited amongst the flock, and a deplorable part of him noted the simplicity of the lock and the well-appointed dining room, with the carved sideboard and china cabinet. The fine white plates all round and cool like little moons and the silver chest that could fit under his arm…

No. Not these folks.

A woman screamed from a room deeper in the home and Arthur froze, his head snapping toward the sound, trying to assess the threat, and knowing, preternaturally that he could be of little help here. Silence settled back over the house and he noted the ticking of a clock under the hushed tones of the women. Emelia spoke with an older woman, a shriveled little prune wrapped in a green flannel shawl. The midwife, he assumed. Her voice like a brook over river stones, cool, bubbly and soothing despite the fear in that cry from beyond.

Emelia paused to look at him, a lone man standing so lost in the expanse, at a time ruled rightly by women. He remembered when Abigail’s time had come. John was falling down drunk and Grimshaw cursed him a fool and a child and sent Arthur. He rode to Thistledown in the black of night. Rode like one of the Four Horsemen at a deadly breakneck pace, Boadicea lathered in sweat. Arthur drew the midwife from her home with threats and bribery and pleading.

“On the table, Mr. Morgan,” Emelia motioned, in indication of where to go. “Please.”

He nodded, stepping forward, his boots sounding heavy on the planks. Venturing deeper into the home, into the kitchen beyond the two women. A squared pine table sat in the center of kitchen tiles, draped in cloth. Next to the great cast-iron stove, pots set to boiling. The mid-wife had been heating plates too, placing them in a basket, keeping the sheets warm.

Arthur set the bags down, mindful of the fragile contents. “Thank you,” Emelia said softly. Her continued politeness to him only left him feeling more wretched.  He looked at her, in her soft lace chemise. Already she rolled up her sleeves. “You gonna be alright,” he asked.

A tiny smile flickered at the edge of her mouth and disappeared just as quick. “Yes, Arthur. Thank you.”

“I’ll just, uh, see to the girls,” he said. Emelia nodded and with a tip of his hat, Arthur retreated to the relative safety of the cool outdoors.

“I can’t stand the sound of it either,” Mr. Payne confided from his chair. Arthur looked at him and found the older man staring out over the farm, almost in a daze. “It’s somethin’, ain’t it?”

“What?”

“Kids. You wanna protect ‘em from every scrape and danger… but… well. I can’t help this.”

“Livin’ is messy,” Arthur agreed.

“Damn fools,” Payne continued. “They were so proud of it. That damn star.”

“Yer son-in-law? He was a sheriff?”

“Deputy,” Mr. Payne nodded. “Shot over an empty wagon.”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur managed. “For your girl. Must be tough.”

“Young’uns. They all think themselves invincible. Thought ‘cause he could shoot a beer bottle off a fence post he was special.”

Arthur stayed out by the horse shed, watering the mares. A farmhand graciously offered some oats and directed him to a pasture. Once Boadicea and Belladonna were comfortably at rest, he pulled his journal and a strip of dried venison form his satchel and settled against the wall. Leafing through the pages. Past the sketch of a pretty girl leaning hazardously from a ladder, or the one of her nestled in a plethora of poppies.

How she looked that night, in awe by starlight. When it became eclipsed by fear. Of him.

He closed his eyes and thought how best to convey it, this unique mess of his own making. Damn fool.

_Lured in by her musk, a bee to the flower, he found her in a glade._

_Framed in a shaft of golden light cutting through the trees, she grazed daintily on apples and acorns. Snow-white tail twitching. Grace made flesh, she lifted her head to gaze at him with soft, intuitive eyes. Ears flicking toward him. Interested and inviting._

_The desire to approach was strong and his fourteen-point crown proved unwieldy in the low hanging branches of apple and young oak. He bowed his head to her and stepped carefully, drawn irrevocably, like the ocean to the moon._

“Arthur...?”

A soft nudging to his shoulder. He pulled back from it, caught against the wall, lifting his head from his chest and opening his eyes.

“Wake up,” Emelia said, breathy and light.

Arthur snapped his journal shut. He shook the last hazy tendrils of sleep from his head and pushed his hat back into position as he stood. “Sorry,” he grumbled, returning the journal to his satchel. They were still at the ranch, the sun now at its zenith.

“Emma, I didn’t mean to…”

 “No, I’m glad you rested,” Emelia said. “It was trying.”

“How’d it go?”

A little smile tugged at her lips despite any anger she might hold for him. “Mother and child are resting.”

Arthur nodded. “That’s real good,” he said, watching her. Tired, drawn. The satchel bags hooked over her shoulder. “Here, let me,” he said, thankful that she did not protest. Her neat little pleat come loose against her neck in all the excitement and leaving wisps of dark hair blowing on the soft breeze. His throat felt tight.

“You alright?”

“I am exhausted, Mr. Morgan.”

Once-in-a-lifetime things slipped through his fingers before. Mary. Isaac. Some deep and indelible flaw in his soul that prohibited him from ever being worthy of so fine a thing as a family of his own. What a fool he was to dare think this would be any different.

And still… some tenacious, stubborn part of him fanned what few embers remained. That portion that could track a wily fox or allowed him to climb mountains for a view. “Emma, please...”

“On the road, perhaps,” Emelia said.

Arthur gave one small, eager nod. “Okay.”

Neither said a word as they left Payne’s property. Riding down the winding path that would take them back to the Montana River crossing. Passed gorging wakes of large American black vultures, and Arthur did not begrudge the scavengers their tenacity nor their timing. Emelia resolutely ignored them and the buffets beneath their wings. She quietly urged Bella into a trot, avoiding their points of convergence. Keeping her eyes firmly ahead.

Arthur gave Emelia her space, waiting anxiously like a man waiting the scaffold for her invitation to speak, though he still did not know what to say. He had no defense for how he first laid eyes on her, or how he came to darken her door on behalf of Strauss and the gang. They were well across the river when he finally grew tired with the waiting. Eager to put an end to his misery.

“Emma,” he tried. “Please. Just hear me out, at very least.”

“Alright,” she said, voice soft. “Why did you rob me?”

Arthur swallowed. “I ain’t gonna deny you got done dirty.”

“That would be an understatement, Mr. Morgan,” Emelia replied coolly.

“And I am sorry, Emma,” he said. A thousand times would not be enough. “Really, I am.”

“Sorry that it happened to be me, now that we...” she trailed off, uncertain. “Or are you genuinely sorry that you robbed a stage and shot Clem Stone?”

Arthur bristled at the absurdity of the alternative. “I weren’t gonna just let the kid shoot me.”

“He would not have shot you had you not been robbing his clients!”

“Aw Hell, Emma…” Arthur began. Oh Lord, this girl. Even exhausted and heartsick, she could _reason,_ and Arthur could not deny the invisible steel underneath all her lace. He wondered what Dutch would say in a moment like this, always some slick answer at the ready to justify their means.

But he was not Dutch… and this was not just any mark. “You’re right, darlin’.”

Emelia scrutinized him a moment, pretty head cocked to the side. “That’s it?” she asked. “You concede it, simple as that?”

Arthur shrugged helplessly. “What am I gonna say?” Arthur said. “I’m an outlaw.”

“I am such a little fool.”

“You ain’t a fool, Emma.”

“Oh but I am, Mr, Morgan,” she said, wiping her eyes again. “Why did you not tell me?” 

“Was there any way that wouldn’t have made you upset?”

She laughed mirthlessly at that. “No… no I suppose not.”

“I just… It got so that I didn’t know how to say it, I guess.”

She softened at that. “The truth can be hard,” she conceded.

“I… like you,” he said. “Too much to think straight.”

Emelia sighed in a sad, ragged way and Arthur felt his chances bleeding out with it. “Why do you do it?”

“What?”

“All of it,” she clarified. “The robbing and the bounties and the bullying and the killing? Why?”

“We talkin’ about them fellas on the road?”

“No. I asked you to ride with me,” she said, gently. “Some part of me knew something like that could happen. That, like Clem, you might have to protect me.” She paused to smile sardonically at that, no doubt appreciating the twisted irony. “I cannot be upset with you for that. It’s everything else that worries me… The danger you place yourself in and the harm you’re causing.”

Arthur sighed. “I don’t take pleasure from it,” he said. That was truth. Gleaning more pleasure from soft mornings with this woman, from the quiet times with Boadicea, writing and drawing and discovering the strange little corners of America than he did in the breaking and taking and murdering. “Honest. I ain’t never shot a child nor a horse and I sure as Hell don’t make a habit of gunnin’ down innocent folk. But… I’ve killed plenty.”

“And… what sort of ‘folk’ do you kill?”

“Well, you know…” Arthur said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Rival gangs an’ bandits, bounty hunters lookin’ fer Dutch…some guards… when the job calls for it.”

Christ… what was it about this girl that had him wanting to declare and renounce all his depravities? To simply open the flue and just be empty of secrets? Even though she would likely condemn him and cast him from her light.

_You love her, you sour-faced idiot._

“Lawmen?” Emelia supplied. She looked at him steadily, same as she did in the Payne house. She did not need to say it. Arthur could not lie to this fine woman or deny the truth of it. He had not shot Coraline Payne’s silly husband, but Arthur made his fair share of widows over the decades, same as all the other wolves.

Arthur steeled himself and forced the shameful words out of his mouth. “Yeah,” he said, bitterly. “Sometimes.”

“And you feel not a shred of remorse?”

Arthur looked up to the sky, gathering the courage to continue damning himself before her.

“I ain’t sorry for stayin’ alive,” he said plainly. “Or for protectin’ those I care about. But I know I’m killing men. That it can’t be undone or made right. That they might have folk dependin’ on ‘em. And… I know that I’d rather not kill ‘em. Fer whatever that’s worth.”

She grew quiet after that. Keeping her own council again. They rode on in this oddly graceful silence, just the soft hoof-falls of their calm horses and the bright azure sky overhead.

“When did you fall in with this gang of yours? With this Dutch?”

“Sometime after my daddy died.”

“And you’re 36 now?”

He nodded.

“That is a real long time,” Emelia said, almost gently.

“Was on my own about three years,” he explained. He tried to forget the fear. Never knowing when he’d eat or if he’d see daylight. The sort of men that took notice of him. “Sleepin’ in hay lofts and behind saloons. No horse. No gun. Couldn’t even read… no one wanted to hire a skinny kid. Not for honest work, anyway. ‘Cept coal mines or...”

Pretty boy, they had called him.

“Stealin’ seemed preferable,” Arthur said quickly. The shame of it all made his throat close and the words come out rough and harsh. “You ever been shot at fer stealin’ food? From pigs? You ever been that hungry, Miss Griswold?”

“No,” she said piteous and honest. “You know I haven’t.”

Arthur felt disgrace for that too. The old habit, or perhaps it was a hollow defense. Trying to make a rich girl feel shame for her birth. It seemed so silly now. Emelia was no more to blame for her daddy’s wealth than he was for his daddy’s abuse.

“But… I want to understand, Arthur,” she said so soft it was practically a coo. “I meant it. I want to know you.”

“Still?” he asked, suddenly hopeful.

“Perhaps,” Emelia said. “How did you meet your gang?”

“I tried to steal their horses,” he said, smirking at the sheer gall of it now. “Tryin’ to rob a pair of consummate thieves. Can you imagine?”

When Emelia said nothing Arthur chuffed, feeling a little silly for even asking. “Course you can’t,” he said. “Let me tell you it is a Fool’s errand, plain an’ simple. I thought Dutch an’ Hosea were gonna skin me an’ instead… they fed me. Bought me a meal and a night in a bed. Taught me to read an’ write an’ shoot,” Arthur said. How could she imagine it? The value of sleep devoid of fear. Of finding some sense of home? “How to read a situation an’ stop an’ think. Dutch… he said… well, he says a lot of things. But man is a beast to man and civilization, the whole system it’s built on, is designed to induce nothin’ but greed and apathy in people.”

“Do you believe that, Arthur?”

He thought of Archibald Gillis and his drinking and prioritization of status over happiness. Arthur remembered crosses. Stark and white outside a cabin in the fall gloom. Erected over a measly ten bucks. No. Arthur certainly did not feel ‘apathetic’

“Well, not entirely,” he conceded. “I mean, sometimes I fail to see the point in tryin’…”

“Trying what?”

Of course, Emelia would ask. So passionate in her vocation. Doctor Emelia, with all her fine breeding and education and wealth and golden heart, remained an anti-thesis to Dutch’s opinion of the upper class. Of America as a whole. She made Arthur feel like a stupid young buck all over again.

“Havin’ faith in folk, I guess. The world, people… we’re awful. Only a handful worth givin’ a damn about, really. Worth protecting or loving.”

“I see.”

“Loyalty to each other, that’s what matters.  I owe ‘em my life.”

“I heard an old proverb in the tenements,” Emelia said in a tremulous voice. “When a dove associates with crows its feathers remain white while its heart becomes black.”

“Meanin’?”

Emelia drew Bella to a halt and he and Boadicea followed. She looked at Arthur for a long moment, with those sweet, earnest eyes, worrying at her bottom lip. “I think you might be a good man caught in a terrible cycle, Mr. Morgan,” Emelia said. “And… I need some rest, and a chance to think. I… don’t know if I can continue a relationship with a man who harms people.”

Arthur took a deep breath and tried to quell the worry. “Okay,” he said, low and soft in his throat, nodding in resigned acceptance. “Okay, darlin’.”

“Thank you.”

“So… what now?” he asked. “Do I need to worry ‘bout you runnin’ to the law?”

Emelia slowly shook her head, the tears standing in her large dark eyes. “Oh, Arthur. Do you remember?” She sniffed, trying to compose herself. “When I told you being a good doctor is as much art as science?”

“I remember,” Arthur said, doubtful he would ever forget her.

“I prefer to think a noose the wrong remedy in your case.”

“That so,” Arthur said on a breath. He wet his lips. “What’s the right ‘remedy’ then?”

“I don’t know yet.”


	18. Doves and Ravens Fly the Same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear Readers:
> 
> You keep me going. 
> 
> All the kudos, favorites, follows, subscriptions and bookmarks… Wow. And your reviews and comments? The way they range from brief and adorably dorky to deep and insightful? For this amateur, they are as good as getting paid. Thank you for letting me know how the story is coming across to you. You help me hone my work, and I know it takes time to think of something to say and to type it out. 
> 
> But most importantly, thank you for just reading this.

Walking in the crowded closeness of New York, she saw the sooty, hollow little faces of guttersnipes. Threadbare woolen caps pulled low over grimy hair and red ears. Sleeping in ragged heaps over grates, desperate to stay warm in the winter. Emelia did not lift her gaze, pretending not to see them, as she had been taught. Her heart would not allow her such comfort. Emelia looked and saw them, the cast-offs of society, and she wondered in earnest how they got there.

“Poverty is a series of bad choices,” Victoria Griswold insisted, cold and unfeeling as a glacier.

Edward, latching to all mother said, echoed the sentiment. “They could purchase rent and food and fuel with the money wasted on drink.”

Sometimes, perhaps. Emelia saw the drunks. The opium addicts. Surely, they held a good portion of the blame for their situation. But what of their children? She saw the misfortune but also the potential, though she knew not how to offer it. 

Maggie. Only nineteen. Once with eyes grey and soft as morning fog and a plush pillow of a mouth. The youngest daughter of rag-pickers and beggars. Younger than Emelia and wise to the harshness of the world. 

Watching that girl die, painfully, slowly, with all the shame and stigma and knowledge that her profession exposed her, filled Emelia with disgraceful relief, for she held no delusions regarding her own resilience. She thanked God for the luck of her lofty birth. 

Maggie never chose her life. A ready smile on her face and a sweet, even disposition, though many deemed her a bad girl. Bad? Worse than the married men who paid her? For choosing to sell herself rather than steal? Did Christ not dine with prostitutes and tax collectors?

They rode back into Blackwater. Exhausted and emotionally drained, her stomach churned. Emelia could not think to eat dinner. They approached her hotel and Arthur drew to a stop and dismounted.

“Get some rest,” he said, coming to her side, and grasping the reins. “I’ll see to Bella.”

“No,” Emelia replied. Looking down at Arthur, noting the sadness of his pale eyes. Guttersnipes grow up and she left the ice out of her voice. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan, but… I should care for my own horse. You’ve taught me as much.”

“I know,” he conceded, with a small, hesitant smile. “But… let me do this fer you, Emma. Folk need you rested.”

Arthur reached up for her, so dogged in his chivalry, beckoning with his middle and index fingers and Emelia relented. She slipped down into his arms and he brought her gently to earth. Her hands lingered on his shoulders, feeling the heat through the fabric of his dark shirt. Emelia stared up into Arthur’s face, now coated in a days’ worth of burnished stubble. She worried her lower lip and fought the urge to press in on him, even now. Drawn to him, despite everything.

“Thank you again, Mr. Morgan,” Emelia managed to say before stepping back from him, difficult though it was.

He sighed. “Anytime, darlin’.”

Once in the Blackwater Hotel, Emelia ordered a bath, knowing she would not sleep so coated in dust. She slipped into the sudsy water, allowing the heat to relax away her aches, listening numbly to the pip-popping of the tiny bubbles. The indignant anger she felt for the robbery and the lending had faded to a dull twinge. From the scars on Arthur’s dear face and hands, and his own confession, she could not deny his talent for violence and savagery.

How could she build a life with him?

Why did she still want to?

Doctors did not live life on the run with bands of murdering, thieving vagrants. Even those with delusions of a higher morality. This Dutch Van der Linde… and his savage Utopia, as Arthur had described it. Emelia did not know this man and yet she disliked him. They hurt people, regardless of whatever justification this Fagin-like opportunist instilled in the misguided angry adolescents he preyed upon. 

 _First, to do no harm._ A concept so simple and sacred and the idea of disregarding it made her ill.

Emelia allowed herself to imagine letting Arthur go. Her riding and finances now such that she could survive with enough precaution. Yes, she told herself. She came out here to avoid a marriage. To be a doctor. She would be… alright.

But her heart. Oh, her stubborn, hopeful heart. Her time with Arthur, brief though temperate, undermined her honest anger and softened her memory. The lump formed in her throat.

Emelia crawled into bed and laid her head down.

Would Arthur be alright? Or would she find him in a week, or a month, or a year from now on one of those ghastly daguerreotypes they sold as postcards? The stark sepia-toned macabre shots of lawmen holding up dead outlaws, riddled with bullet wounds, like prize deer. No, no, no. Emelia’s heart flipped, and a sudden, frantic terror gripped her. She could not shake loose of its hold.

Born to a poor illiterate woman and an abusive outlaw and rescued by rogues. An American Oliver Twist, with all the poverty and none of the tidy happy ending. Was it any wonder he groused and grumbled and fought to survive? Nature personified, cruel and unflinching. Dangerously powerful and ruthlessly protective. Emelia recognized it in him from the moment she first saw him, she knew, all feisty and wild. She knew it was there and now it would not be denied, try as she might.

And she loved him anyway.

Arthur was not all harshness, though, her heart supplied. She found the truth of him, all shy and smitten, in the mornings and in the meadow by the Montana and by starlight. Cautious and so sincere in his pursuit, wanting so plainly to be hers. In his honest story-telling, ever eager to down-play his own impact or skill. The simple wisdom wrested from hard-living and all the gentle, contemplative majesty of a stag. Arthur was an embodiment of the great Freedom he so cherished, calling her toward adventure and self-reliance and she wanted, so terribly, to follow him despite her fears and never look back.

Why could Arthur not see, with all his self-reflection and strength and skill, the honest life he could build with his scarred hands?

And then, all at once, it hit Emelia. Clean and clear as winter air.

She needed to set him free.


	19. A Little Unsteady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unspoken promise.

“Another?” Milford Weaver asked.

Arthur nodded. “Sure.”

The bartender freely poured. Upstairs, the Blackwater Saloon’s gentleman’s club was full to collapsing, the boastful voices and footfalls carrying, muted, through the floor. High stakes tables and top-shelf liquor lured in what accounted for Blackwater’s socially mobile, and Ms. Howard, the waitress, ran herself near ragged trying to keep up with their thirsts. In the corner a pair of talented colored fellers played the keys and fiddle, hitting the upbeat chords of ‘Forty Drops’ like they wrote it.

Mr. Weaver set down the ounce and Arthur took up the glass of bourbon, tapping it once before tipping it back in a gulp, and the liquor burned the cuts inside his mouth. He had intended to drown his sorrows. Until pair of young studs, full of piss and vinegar, decided to harass poor Ms. Howard that is.

Damn idiots.

All they had to do was quiet down. Keep their paws to themselves and apologize to the lady. But they had different ideas. Cursed him for an old man and opted instead for a proper beating. Given his foul mood, Arthur obliged them. Hell, he’d have obliged them regardless of his miserable love life.

Now, back inside, in the loud and smoky air, Arthur sat at the bar, hunched in and feeling sorry. Already the bruises began to set in, the tell-tale stinging of split skin. Nothing compared to… whatever was going on inside him. He had a heart, for certain, unable to deny the damn thing when it ached so.

Weaver lifted the bottle of 10-year-old Blood Eyes in offering, raising his dark silvery brows in a wheedling way. Arthur pushed his glass forward with a nod. “Why not?”

How many shots would it take? To forget this stupid, foolish endeavor? To drown out false hope? Emma said she needed time to think… What was there to think about? They all left. Only this time she had been wronged. His preference to crime had precluded him before he even knew who Emelia was. Christ Almighty… what a fool he had been. You’d think thirty-six years was plenty of time to learn a thing or two about empty promises and pipe dreams.

Mr. Weaver filled the glass again, and Arthur pulled it close. Pinched the ounce glass between his thumb and two fingers and lifted it to his lips.

“I’m fairly certain you’ll find no cure there.”

Arthur choked on the bourbon.

“Emma,” he gasped. Coughing and sputtering on the burning liquid. To his feet like a shot and reeling toward the sound of that soft, breathy voice. Emelia stood there. In the dim lights of the Blackwater Saloon. Dressed fine. In that bright sunny skirt of hers and one of them fitted-shirtwaists of fine white silk and lace. Arthur belatedly removed his hat in a swift, embarrassed gesture.

“Mr. Morgan!” she cried. Her dark brows slanted upward, eyes wide. “What happened to you?”

Arthur blinked, so thrilled to see her he did not right catch her meaning and then remembered. His brow and jaw still ached something fierce and he braced for the beratement of his character that would be forthcoming. He pulled the hat back down on his head and dropped his gaze to her hem. “Aw… it weren’t nothin’.”

“ _You’re bleeding_ ,” Emelia said, her voice laced with concern. A feather soft touch to his shoulder was all it took to guide Arthur, albeit clumsily, back into his seat. Emelia snatched his hat and Arthur balked, suddenly feeling exposed beneath her eyes. This would not help endear him…

“He got into a scuffle,” Mr. Weaver explained as she inspected the cut above Arthur’s eye, and the outlaw threw his gaze toward the tiled ceiling, too shamed to look her in the eye. Damn nosy bartender. “Some drunks were houndin’ Ms. Howard. Downright disagreeable, it was.”

Emelia looked to Ms. Howard. “Are you alright, Fannie?”

“I’m fine,” Ms. Howard said with a sheepish little smile. “What with yer feller taking exception on my behalf.”

“Oh, Arthur…”

“Quite a thing,” Mr. Weaver carried on, and Arthur wished the man would swallow his tongue. “Two fellers on one. And when that boy sucker punched him, I thought for sure that –”

“You tryin’ to worry this fine lady?” Arthur demanded sourly. “I just reminded ‘em boys of their manners is all.”

“Yeah well, I doubt Billy Sheridan will be speaking in complete sentences anytime soon!”

“So he clears out some thugs and you just let him drown himself in whiskey?” Emelia demanded of them, hands on her little waist. Mr. Weaver shrugged his thin, round shoulders. “How much has he had?”

“I sure as Hell wasn’t about to move him,” Mr. Weaver said. Fannie signaled the shot count with her thin fingers. Traitorous she-devil.

Emma turned back to him. “No… I suppose not,” Emelia said absently, and Arthur flinched when she reached to touch near the cut. Then she asked, more pointedly and clearly of him; “Is this going to be a common occurrence with you?”

“I was defendin’ a lady,” Arthur said indignantly, and Emelia sighed with a tired smile.

“I meant the drinking.”

“No,” he grumbled. Then, more softly he added; “Not… not usually.”

“Let’s get this taken care of before it scars,” she offered.

He shrugged. “Won’t make no difference.”

Emelia shook her head, that little smile still not fading. “Good Lord, Arthur,” she said, gently tugging his arm and coaxing him to his feet. “Would that you could see yourself through my eyes.”

They walked to the Surgery, the place he had first spoken to her properly. Well after the supper hour, the streets were mostly quiet. The sun set long ago. As they walked along, crossing the street, Arthur remained acutely aware of Emelia’s hand tucked secure in the crook of his arm. Emelia unlocked the little door. She guided him in the near darkness, flicking on the harsh electric lights as they went, through the waiting room and down the hall and into the first examination room. She flicked the switch and he saw the wooden surgical chair in the center of the space.

“Honestly,” he said. “There’s really no need for all this fuss over a few little cuts.”

With a soft pressure to his elbow, Emelia guided Arthur forward. “Sit,” she said, and he obeyed, settling uneasily into the apparatus. Emelia removed his hat, hanging it on the coat rack behind the door before busying herself at the small counter. Washing her hands and arranging white cloth and sorting her needle and catgut. A dark brown bottle of liquid sat there too, that Arthur knew could not be whiskey. Emelia moistened one of them white cloths with its contents before leaning over him and cleaning the cut above his left eye. Removing blood and grime with confident, tender swipes. The scent of bergamot, clean and crisp and alive, drifted over the smell of the disinfectant.

Arthur closed his eyes when she came at him with the needle, ignoring the prick and pull in favor of the feather-touch of her fingertips. Over too soon.

He opened his eyes, when Emelia plucked up his right hand. Her hand so small and elegant compared to his thick, callused paw. Arthur watched in muted wonder as Emelia dabbed at the gash in his knuckle. Where tooth caught skin. So tender and thorough. If it stung, Arthur did not notice, so focused on the feel of warm slender fingers firmly clasping his own.

“Don’t blame you,” he said, gruffly. “I’ve sinned too much to deserve somethin’ so fine as you.”

Emelia blinked. “You are very resigned, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur shrugged away her observation. “Loved a different girl once,” he explained. “Long time ago. Bit like you. A real lady.”

“Oh?” Emelia asked, voice all fragile.

“Mary Gillis,” Arthur said with a nod. “Or, Linton, I guess.” He frowned, blinking. “She was smart like you, too. She knew what I am and… well… married someone else.”

Emelia’s eyes flicked up to meet his for a brief, meaningful instant but she said nothing. She moistened a fresh cloth and leaned over him again. Thoughtfully working at the split in his lower lip. Her left hand came to rest high on his neck, near his cheek, as if she needed to hold him still.

Finally, she looked him in the eye and said, “I suppose I should count myself lucky that she did.”

Arthur’s mouth went dry. “Lucky?” he ground out, voice crowded. “That I ain’t married?”

Emelia nodded.

“Can I take this to, uh…” he paused. Cleared his throat. “To, uh… mean you ain’t showin’ me the gate?”

A tiny smile turned the corner of her pretty mouth. “No,” she replied. “Not yet.”

“Darlin’,” Arthur said on a sigh, and he waited until those soft brown eyes met his. “I really am sorry.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry, too.”

“You?” He could not help but chuff at that. “What for?”

“For taking so long to find you,” she replied. “I know I probably seem silly or naïve but… I don’t know. I wish… I wish your life had been… better. That your mother had lived longer or your father found real work or that Mary…” she drew a breath and turned away from him. “Well, even that Mary had stayed by you. I wish you had been supported more.”

“Aw, Hell, Emma,” he said, not knowing what to say to such a wish. Arthur pushed himself out of the chair. “Things… things ain’t so bad.”

Emelia turned back to him then, staring up at him. “I love you,” she said, clasping his hands. “I want you. All of you. I… want to make a life with you, Arthur. If you’ll allow me.”

Arthur frowned, now fully confused. “’Allow’ you?” he asked, chuckling at the peculiarity of her statement. “Darlin’, I assure you… this feelin’… it flows both ways.”

Emilia licked her lips. “I understand that you’ve led a… hard life to this point. I accept it and I promise you I will never censure or revile you for the things you’ve done before tonight. But… you understand, Arthur, that I can’t live like you do?”

Arthur swallowed. “I know, darlin’,” he said, nodding. “I know. We’ll… well, we’ll figure somethin’ out.”

“And… you understand that I can’t be with you knowing that you put yourself into situations where you must cause harm. Nor in situations where you could be hurt or killed.”

Now he frowned. “You mean… like tonight?”

“No. No…” she said quickly. Emelia smiled soft. Brought his hand to her lips and placed a kiss on his bruised knuckles before looking up at him. “What you did for Fannie? Or how you protected me? How can I condemn you for that? I suppose that’s the crux of it, Arthur. I need you to follow your heart more.”

“I… don’t understand.”

“I know you are always going to be… well…” she dropped her gaze to the hand clasped within her own. She softly drew her thumb along the ridges of his knuckles, over the scars. “A little rough around the edges. But… I believe you when you said you take no joy from it. From the thieving and the… the killing?”

“Well, no. I dunno… it’s… well… it can be gratifyin’.”

Emelia frowned. “Gratifying?”

“Well… sure. _Sometimes,_ ” he tried. A part of him clung desperate to his – to Dutch’s- vision of a free and just America. “Robbin’ folk like Thompson or beating up some fool drunk who pisses away his family’s rent money…”

“And would robbing Doctor Thompson actually stop his pricing practices?” Emelia asked.

“Well… I… I dunno,” he replied.

“Or would he just raise them higher to recover his losses?”

“I ain’t never thought too much on it. Before.”

“And does beating the fool drunk feed his children?”

Arthur looked at the ground, shaking his head, a small smile quirking his lip. Damn, she was quick. “No,” he said, chuffing an embarrassed little laugh. “No. It don’t.”

Two wooden crosses. Hastily erected in a front yard over shallow graves. The house left to the elements. Leaves blown in the threshold. Arthur had been away. Too far away to be of any goddamn use. Running scams and robbing coaches, all to chase a damn dream, while his little boy…

His little boy…

Emelia stepped closer, Arthur’s hand clutched to her heart, and stared up at him. She did not know. How could she know his dark, sad thoughts and yet she looked at him with all the kindness in the world.

“I know there is kindness in you,” Emelia continued. Her deft, graceful fingers ran along the buried roots of his veins. Between the sweet, curious little caress and the longing in her eyes and the sheer _closeness_ of her body Arthur felt something stirring inside him. “From the stories you’ve told me, and from how you’ve so eagerly assisted me, I know it brings you joy to help people.”

A small part of him wanted to snap and snarl and tell her he was no good. The same part, that spurred him to bristle at any kindness or pity, itched to drive her off before she could expose him to further hurt. And hurt would come, Arthur knew, from cherishing anything. It was all life ever taught him and he sinned too much to deserve anything at all.

Arthur drew steadying breaths and firmly gripped her hand and a foolish spark of hope kept him from saying anything stupid or mean. Dutch would deride his lack of vision, but Arthur’s own desires remained far simpler in scope.

“Could you live honestly?” Emelia asked in an intimate whisper.

“You mean…” he paused. Arthur knew it was coming and still his damn throat felt tight. “Go straight?”

Emelia nodded. Arthur swallowed thickly. Close enough to kiss her, if he dared and Arthur did not know what to do.

“Could you try?” she pressed. “If I asked it of you?”

“How?” Arthur asked, bewildered. “I… You know I don’t know nothin’ else. I mean, I got some money saved up, enough to get us started, sure, but then –”

“No, Arthur,” Emelia said, shaking her head. “No ill-gotten gains.”

“But – “

The soft caress of Emelia’s fingers stilled his lips and Arthur’s eyes fluttering near to closing. “Just start over. With me.”

“Start over?” Arthur stammered. “At my age?”

“Yes,” Emelia said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Like it was nothing at all to be offering herself up like she was to an outlaw. “Just you and me.”

“How would I support you?” he asked.

Emelia smiled so sweetly. “Oh Arthur,” she cooed, stroking his cheek. “With your horse-sense and aim and all the hunting and herbalism and tracking? You possess more skill than any man I’ve ever met.”

“You need to meet more men,” he said sarcastically.

“Nonsense,” Emelia admonished with a sweet little giggle. Staring up at him, eyes dark and warm as good coffee. “You are smart and strong and so very capable.”

“Sins don’t just wash away ‘cause you want ‘em to,” he tried. His past could follow them like a bad smell.

“Not wash away, perhaps,” she conceded, merciful and sincere. Emelia laid her hand against his chest. Over his heart. “But… Every day is another chance. To be good. I know you have a great capacity for goodness in you, Arthur.”

Oh, this damn girl. “I’ll try,” he said, reeling and stupidly hopeful.

Emelia smiled up at him all bright and winsome. Arthur now dared, cradling the back of her head, careful not to strain her pretty neck, leaning in and Emelia opened to him. Like a flower to the sun. Emelia’s lips tasted of mercy. Sweet clemency and soothing warmth and her arms went around him, tighter than a bandage.


	20. Save Yourself

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It all starts with a good woman.

Hosea came down the stairs of the Inn and found Arthur and his Emma. Framed by the lace-muted light of the window. Turned toward one another in the wooden chairs and sharing breakfast.

Arthur sat with his back to the wall, so he could watch the room beyond. Clean-shaven. Burnished hair swept back from his face, his hat on his lap. His rough hands moved in that lilting way when he spoke with conviction. Telling some personal tale and Dr. Griswold smiled right to her eyes.

Arthur’s bright gaze flicked briefly from her face as Hosea approached their table.

“Well, good mornin’, Sleepin’ Beauty,” Arthur drawled, and Emelia turned to watch Hosea approach their table. They both stood to greet him. Finally, up close, Hosea noted the surface beauty of this petite girl. In one of those skirts and fitted jackets from the east, all elegant tailored lines accenting a fine, womanly figure. The soft rosy warmth of her skin. Long lashes and delicate features set in a lovely, oval face. The sort this rough cowboy would fall all over himself to protect. 

“Good morning, Arthur,” the older man replied, though he smiled at the doctor. “And who do we have here?”

Arthur smiled like the cat that swallowed the canary. “Mister Hosea Matthews, I’d like you to meet Doctor Emelia Griswold.”

Dr. Emelia offered her hand, so gracious and polite. Like a girl meeting her beloved’s father and not some degenerate associate. “A pleasure, Mr. Matthews,” she said, in a sweet, breathy way.

“The pleasure is all mine, my dear,” Hosea replied with a little smirk, shaking her hand.

“Arthur has spoken so highly of you,” she continued as they found their seats.

“Has he?” Hosea flicked his gaze to the younger outlaw, who offered a half-smile and a condemnatory nod of admittance. Hosea smiled sardonically and wondered what else had been shared.

The doctor gave a little shrug. “Well… only that you saved him from destitution. Taught him to read and write. That you are practically a father to him.”

“Is that all?” Hosea asked, though he could not help but feel a touch flattered.

“I wanted very much to meet you, Mr. Matthews,” she said plainly.

Hosea never did have flesh-and-blood children of his own. Meeting this girl now, in so genteel a way, he could not shake the feeling that perhaps it tasted something like this. The satisfaction that your boy maybe found someone good and worthy to love. Someone to encourage and love him even when you no longer could.

They sipped coffee and talked about booming Blackwater, and her vocation, and why she left New York, trading luxury for the freedom to toil. Odd girl. Of the ‘welcome’ she received at the hands of the coarse man sitting, dumb and so very content, next to her.

“I am surprised you stayed after that,” Hosea said. Emelia demurely cast her gaze to Arthur. Looking at him through her lashes.

A slow smile stretched Arthur’s lips. “I’m lucky she did,” he said sheepishly.

Emelia looked at the clock against the wall, behind the counter and let out a regretful little sigh. “Time I was on my way, gentlemen,” she said. Emelia rose to her feet and the two men stood with her. “Again, a pleasure, Mr. Matthews.”

Hosea smiled and nodded. “Take care of yourself, Dr. Griswold.”

“And you,” she said, looking up meaningfully at Arthur. “I’ll see you tonight? Barring some emergency.”

Arthur nodded solemnly. “Of course,” he said. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Emelia rose up on her toes, and Arthur bent for her. They kissed, softly, briefly, and still a murmur of disapproval rippled through the room at such an open display of affection.

“Be good,” she said quietly as they parted, absently smoothing the lapels of his vest.

“I will certainly try,” he said. Emelia went and he watched her go, smiling tenderly. Not finding his seat again until the door closed behind her.

“I take it you got everything sorted, then?” Hosea asked, watching Arthur carefully.

Again, just a simple smile and a nod. “More or less.”

“And where is she off to today?”

“Workin’,” Arthur said, and the next words spoken lacked his usual acid. “Savin’ the world, one patient at a time.”

Hosea waited as the waitress refilled his coffee. Once she had moved on he looked at Arthur. “Are you ready to get down to work now?” Hosea asked pointedly and the younger outlaw shifted in his seat, leaning forward on his elbows. “I’m feeling it’s time to lay the bait in the trap. Get a feel for where they make their deals and how the money is transferred if we have any hope of intercepting a deal.”

“Well,” Arthur started. He rubbed the back of his neck. Working towards something, like a boy half his age. He cleared his throat. “Emma, she… well…”

“Well…?”

“She wants me out.”

And there it was.

Hosea had seen this coming. Like a freight train barreling down the tracks the moment he saw them together on the street not even a week ago. Still, a part of Hosea stopped thinking that it would ever happen. That Arthur would remain a confirmed bachelor after the disaster of Mary Gillis, more likely to swing or get shot before ever finding another chance like her again.

“You know,” Arthur continued, gruffly. “Uh, go straight.”

“The good ones always want to get their men out.”

“Yeah,” Arthur agreed. He looked down a moment, thinking. He took a breath. “I see that,” he said, nodding. “She’s an adamant little thing about it, too.”

Good, Hosea thought. She won’t give him an inch and he might come out ahead for it. Hosea looked at him squarely. “You thinking marriage?”

“Sure am,” Arthur said. “If… well, I want to make sure I can make a go of this first. Without embarassin’ myself. Or her, for that matter.”

“If you’re sure about this…”

The enforcer chuffed an uneasy little breath. “Don’t think I ever been so sure of anythin’ in my life.”

Hosea sighed.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur said. He cast his gaze down to the surface of the table. At his hands. “I… well, I didn’t set out lookin’ for this…”

“Don’t apologize,” Hosea said, forcing a smile to his face. “Not for this. And don’t misunderstand me. I’m happy for you. It’s just… well. I know it won’t be easy.”

“I know,” Arthur said, quietly. He took a deep breath. “Leavin’.” Arthur said the word as if he could not believe it himself. “Christ… I am crazy ‘bout her. But… this gang. After all these years an’ everythin’ that you and…  and Dutch, did for me. It’s like… givin’ up on family. Seems… I dunno. Wrong, I guess.”

No. It would not be easy.

“We’ll be alright,” Hosea offered. “Really. You won’t find a better time to take a chance like this, Arthur.”

The younger outlaw sighed. “I ain’t ever been dealt a good hand all my life.”

“Then play it,” Hosea said firmly. “We’re doing well, right now. We have a nice chuck of change in the coffers, and with our job…”

Hosea wanted to think that California were a real possibility. But with each passing year the doubt grew a little thicker. Burned off a little slower. Hosea now felt right down to his very bones that, if the gang ever did settle down, he would not live to see it.

“I am sorry, Hosea,” Arthur said. “I hate leavin’ you in a bind.”

“Stop with the guilt. I can bring in John or Lenny to help me with it.”

“Yeah,” he said, still sounding uncertain.

“Give it a shot,” Hosea insisted. “If it doesn’t work out or she turns out to be as sour as Grimshaw you know how to find us.”

Arthur chuckled at that. “Yeah. I guess. It’s just…” Arthur trailed off in thought. He tipped his head back, looking up to the ceiling for a moment. “I don’t even know where to start,” he said, honestly. “She’s… Well… she’s so sure. ‘Bout everythin’. Emma don’t need to think on it. Bein’… decent? Findin’ honest work?”

“It isn’t always easy,” Hosea conceded.

“Well… how’d you do it?”

Hosea smiled. This man might be finally getting set to leave the nest and still there was more to teach him. Hosea took a slow sip of his coffee and then said; “Mending fences.”

“Seriously?”

“Started that way,” the conman said. “Seems almost a lifetime ago, but I remember. The uncertainty you’re feeling now. Not sure where to even start. But…. Well, Bessie had some ideas. We moved to the Heartlands of New Hanover. Near Valentine of all places, if you can imagine, on account of the name.”

Arthur chuckled. “Bessie always were a bit of a romantic.”

“That she was,” Hosea said. “We took my earnings and…”

“Emma made it clear she don’t want no ‘ill-gotten gains’.”

Hosea snorted. “Nonsense,” he said. “Take what you’re owed.”

Arthur smirked. “Weren’t you the one goin’ on about honesty?” he asked with his familiar sarcasm.

“You’re going to have a hard-enough time,” Hosea reasoned. “I understand where she’s coming from. Probably thinking it’s all or nothing, and in some ways she’s right. But don’t be an idiot. Debt will only be a temptation.”

“Okay, okay,” Arthur conceded, hands up. “I’ll try to, uh, explain it to her in them terms.”

“See that you do,” Hosea said, mollified. “If you come back to it, I want it to be because you want to. Not because you’re desperate.”

“So. You took some money…?”

“Rented a flat at first. Eventually bought about ten acres and a little house. Had some chickens, one good milk cow…”

Arthur laughed. “You?”

“Nothing too fancy,” Hosea said. “Enough to keep food on our table and sell a little extra from time to time. Shoulda seen the look on Bessie’s face when she learned to make butter! You’d think she invented gunpowder.”

“I’ll be honest,” Arthur said. “I just don’t see Emma havin’ the time or know-how to work a farm on top of her doctorin’.”

“You’ll sort it out,” Hosea said reassuringly. “Bessie wasn’t a doctor, bringing in her own salary, but she insisted on a share of the work, regardless. We were partners.”

“An’ how did you make money? Without… well, you know.”

“Odd jobs. The first of which was helping mend the fences in the auction yard,” Hosea explained. He’d been a younger man and still those had been hard weeks. His hands blistering and his back aching. “Then I took on groundskeeping for the Church, pulling weeds, white washing, pilling firewood. I’d work during the shearing season and when nothing at all could be found, well, then I’d hunt and fish. Learned to smoke and salt…”

“I don’t believe you,” Arthur said, chuckling. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you doin’ any liftin’.”

“Well, it’s the god-honest truth,” Hosea said. “But that’s not the point. Don’t get hung up on the notion of a ‘career’, like you hear so many Easterners going on about. Just keep your head down, like you know how, and take what comes at you.” 

“Aw, Hell,” Arthur said. “It don’t sound too bad.”

“It was the humdrum that wore at me,” Hosea said bluntly. “But… every single night I got to go home to Bessie. If not for her… Well. That was one routine that never grew old.”

Arthur said nothing to that. He merely swallowed and nodded, and Hosea knew he struck at some deep longing.

“You’ll manage,” Hosea decided, eying the younger man shrewdly. “Given your proclivity for hard work and, well, anything that requires brute force and little thought.”

“Okay,” Arthur said, chuffing a short little laugh. “Take the money. Hunt for work. Figure out where to nest.”

“And keep your eyes open for opportunities.”

“No,” Arthur said, slowly shaking his head. “Little lady made it very clear. She wants none of it.”

“I don’t mean in our usual sense,” Hosea said. “I mean… well, like a vulture.”

“That’s even worse,” Arthur groused, irritable and clearly disgusted. “I want no part of that shameful _nonsense_.”

“I’m not telling you to _cause_ or even to _aggravate_ misfortune… just that you be prepared to feed off it.”

“How you mean?”

“This is why the saving is important,” Hosea explained. “It’s how we got the house. Bessie and I noticed foreclosures and abandoned land tend to resell for good prices. Same with livestock. Or horses. A spoiled horse, for example, could be worth something in your hands.”

Arthur nodded. Soaking it all in. He scratched at his jawline, thinking. “You know,” he finally said. “There was a feller that paid Emma with a fine yearling.”

“Even better,” the older man said, and Hosea could not help but smile sadly at the bittersweet reality. Arthur would be just fine without them and Hosea could not be prouder.


	21. Certain Kind of Fool

He should run this place.

The sun sank and Micah Bell strolled through the Van der Linde camp, looking at the saps around him. Bill and Uncle were already getting into the whiskey _he_ had earned. Pearson prepared yet another pot of heavily salted stew. Whatever stringy bushmeat the red-skin caught, over cooked to the point it disintegrated into slop. Heavy on potatoes and onions. “Good for scurvy,” the fat fuck always said. Someone needed to pound it into him that he was on dry land.

These people… Dutch was a fool about this shit. Carrying so much dead weight; Whores that didn’t fuck the earners and men worth less than what his horse shit out. Walking with their heads down and their hands out. Bunch of beggars and freeloaders.

Micah thought, once again, about ditching this outfit, feeling cheated on what he’d been sold. Thirty-four. Thirty-four bank heists in twelve fucking years. And that was not counting the stages, or the lending. No other gang could boast such success. Not Jack Hall, or Colm O’Driscoll, or even Jesse James and Micah could not fathom how this lot ever pulled it off.

Micah crossed paths with Dutch at a fence. The boss was trying to sell gold to a disagreeable fence in a disagreeable mood. At first glance, Micah pegged the older dandy as a windbag. Working at being some mysterious fucking enigma, wrapped in a vest. Does the trick on some. Others just shoot first.

Then Dutch shot the fence. For having the temerity to insinuate he was a huckster. Micah appreciated that sort of self-esteem. Appreciated it enough to help the dandy shoot his way out of that shop and ride off into the wilderness with the lock box.

A campfire and a few nips of whiskey later and Micah Bell signed up as a Son of Dutch.

Getting to know his ‘brothers’, however… It left Micah to wonder how they ever achieved such uncanny success. Hosea Matthews, Dutch’s right hand, was a man that should have had the good sense to die five years ago. Cautious to the point of paralyzation. And then there was Arthur Morgan…

Dutch’s lieutenant. The third in command, such as it was. Big, dumb bastard. Sour and sarcastic and so quick with his tongue. Where was that pretty boy now? Off chasing cooch for the better part of two months. That’s where.

These losers all sulked and moaned now that he was scarce. Abigail Roberts and her whiney bastard going on about Uncle fucking Arthur. No wonder Marston drank himself stupid and hit on Big-titty Karen in front of Sean. It would be sad if it weren’t so fucking hilarious. Sean… Stupid little mick. Why did he never ask Micah for pointers on shooting? Or Mary-Beth. Makin’ her dopey moon-eyes. “Oh, I hope Arthur’s doin’ alright. We need him!” Why? Why did they _need_ Morgan? What did that big stupid bastard do that Micah did not?

Oh, there would be a reckoning. Very soon.

Dutch van der Linde was where Micah had left him hours ago, while Micah was out earning. Making things happen. Being the man of action they all so desperately wanted. Here was the Boss, sitting in that stupid chair, reading.

“Fucking lot a good reading does,” Micah grumbled. Dutch looked up, but the shmuck hadn’t heard him. All the better.

“Micah,” Dutch said, putting on a smile. “How’s it going?”

“Just added twenty-five dollars to the box, Boss,” Micah stated loudly, hooking his thumbs in his gun belt. “More than some other people, I noticed.”

“That so,” Dutch said smoothly. Micah gave him a winning smile.

“Heh. It sure is,” Micah confirmed. Dutch closed his book, placed it on top of the barrel next to him, and stood.

“That’s good, Micah,” he said. Good? That’s all? “You’re a good earner. Makes me proud, seeing you set such an example for the rest.”

“Yeah,” Micah said, feeling his smile grow taut. “Good thing ‘Uncle Micah’s’ got mighty big shoulders. Been working my own jobs, and now I been there for old Strauss. Seems other folk decided they be better off livin’ all _civilized_ down in Blackwater…”

“Arthur, you mean,” Dutch said. Micah nodded curtly and Dutch chuckled, setting the gunman’s blood to boiling. “About time he got over that Gillis woman. All high an’ civilized as she was.”

“And this is better?” Micah demanded, dumbfounded. Micah had seen Morgan about town. At the city hall construction site, specifically. Banging nails and hoisting beams and Micah delayed confronting a debtor in front of him. Something in Micah’s gut warning him that Morgan would not be an ally. “This doctor? Strauss says she’s from some old Eastern money. Pretty strange. Morgan payin’ off her debt. A whore’d have been cheaper.”

Dutch checked at that. His eyes tightening with that predatory shrewdness that gave Micah some hope that he’d get a taste of past glories. “What are you going on about?”

Micah smiled. “Oh, no one’s told you?” This was rich. “Your boy’s playing house,” Micah continued, inveigling. “You look in that ledger recently? Pretty strange indeed.”

“He’ll come back,” Dutch said, uneasily. “People ‘round here need him and he knows it. In the meantime, … let him have some fun.”

Micah seethed. What would it take for them to see? Micah was the man with the ideas, and the balls to see it through…

“Do you want some fun?” Micah inquired, bringing his anger down to a simmer. “I got some fun for you.”

“Really,” Dutch said. Micah nodded eagerly, smug shit eating grin blooming on his face. He couldn’t help it.

“Really,” he said. “You know how Blackwater’s Bank has been sending less money out on the stages, right?”

“Right,” Dutch said.

“Well, that’s because they’re getting’ ready to move it all,” Micah said. “One day, one place. ‘Bout two hundred thousand dollars, if they move everything. Which they will.”

Dutch looked at him for a long moment.

“Two hundred…”

“Thousand,” Micah finished for him. No one ever put something forth like this. Dutch’s eyes remained fixed on him. The boss played at being some sort of noble savior, but Micah knew. Dutch wanted that money. No different than him or any other outlaw. This was a score. _The_ score.

“Where?” Dutch finally managed.

“A ferry headin’ for St. Denis,” Micah explained. “One day. A few guards, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“When?” Dutch continued.

“May ninth,” Micah answered. “Take ‘em some time to put all the money together and find an extra gun or two. That’s what it looks like. Passenger ferry, few guns… and two hundred thousand dollars, right there.”

Dutch turned away from him, thumb and index finger pressed to his mouth in thought. Smoothing his moustache. He paced once, twice, then turned back to him.

“How did you find this out?” he finally asked.

“Well, since Morgan ain’t doin’ it, I been collectin’ for Strauss,” Micah began, puffing up a bit. “This new teller at the bank, he got in too deep at the faro tables. He ain’t got the money, but he did have information.”

“You forgave his debt?” Dutch concluded. Micah laughed.

“Of course not,” he replied, chuckling. “This ain’t no fucking charity. But the poor bastard thought I would!”

Dutch considered the information for a long moment.

“I’ll talk to Hosea and Arthur,” Dutch finally decided.

“You need to talk to them about this?” he asked. “Two hundred thousand dollars. What’s there to think about?”

“We need them on this,” Dutch said. “They know what they’re doing. How to think on their feet.”

Micah inhaled sharply. He held his anger in check, barely.

“You know Hosea ain’t no shooter,” he pointed out.

“Exactly,” Dutch replied. “He’ll find the path of least resistance.”

Fine. “And Morgan…” Micah began. No, they did not need him. “Cowpoke’s put himself out to stud, I’m afraid. Would probably sell us out for -”

“Arthur’d never betray this gang,” Dutch said evenly. “It’s time my best gun got back at it.”

Jesus fucking Christ. Micah bit his tongue. Just convince Dutch to do the damn job. Then they’ll all see. “This is our chance, Boss,” Micah tried, though he could no longer smile. “All that money. Two hundred thousand. You pass this up and we’ll be robbin’ two-bit stages ‘til we’re in the grave.”

“Movin’ that kind of money, they gotta have more than a ‘few’ guns,” Dutch said absently. “And that Terminal… it’s located right across from the goddam Police Station.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Micah assured him. “The location makes ‘em complacent. We walk on like we mean to take the trip, take out them lazy guards, walk off. There ain’t nothin’ more to it. Two hundred thousand dollars, Boss. Think about it.”

“I will,” Dutch said. Micah looked him over for a long moment.

Dutch wanted that money, too.

Micah turned without another word, leaving Dutch to come to the only conclusion.


	22. I Don't Wanna Say Goodnight

Meeting Arthur, to ride, had grown painfully sparse. Work started early for migrants. The crack of dawn if he hoped to get paid, and they worked Monday through Saturday, until the sun went down. Her time with him now restricted to a few hours in the evening and precious Sunday. If her own practice did not interfere.

Emelia locked up the Surgery, marking on the chalkboard where she would be eating that night and her Hotel and strolled to the Union Freight Depot, enjoying the late afternoon sun. She came for the new Wheeler and Rawson Spring catalogue. Flicked through the thick tome, to the art materials and school outfits section, and paused on the fine Rowney & Co paint boxes. Could her outlaw take to the brush as well as he took to graphite? Had he ever wanted to play with color? Maybe, if they ever had a home where he could keep it, she would order one for Arthur.

Emelia did order charcoal sticks, in varying hardness. Those he could keep anywhere. She paid for the shipping and as her hand reached for the door, Mr. Fitzgerald stopped her.

“A letter came for you, Dr. Griswold,” he said with a smile. The spindly gentleman placed the envelop in her hand. Emelia read the post mark.

New York, New York.

Emelia stepped outside and broke the familiar seal. Unfolded the good paper. Caught the scent of her mother’s luxurious perfume and felt a sudden pang of homesickness she never anticipated. Saw her mother’s fine, spidery script crawling across the page in the sunshine.

_Emelia,_

_You are dead to me._

_You have no family._

_That you consider your course of conduct in abandoning your fiancé, endeavoring to ruin your family and absconding to West Elizabeth without chaperon at all justified remains a great disappointment._

_This will be the mistake of your life._

_Mrs. Victoria Griswold._

Emelia blinked and gasped a breath.

_You have no family._

How did Mother do it? Always manage to unbalance her and then, so deftly, set her tumbling? Even through ink and parchment. Emelia processed the harsh finality of the letter, her eyes stinging.

_You have no family._

Why? For wanting to work? For daring to wish to have a say in whom she wed. A husband was not like buying a dress. How had she ruined them? It seemed so insane to her. Almost inconceivable that any grown adult would blame her brother or sisters for her behavior or choice. And yet… she knew. That in the foolish, sycophantic world of East Coast Society it was not untrue.

She had brought shame upon them.

What had she done?

Emelia walked to the Silver Skillet. Where they had agreed to meet for dinner. Replaying every event and conversation that led to the moment the idea to flee finally coalesced in her mind. How could she have saved herself from such grief?

She could think of nothing.

If she had stayed and never come to Blackwater she would be in New York. Sending out invitations and picking out flowers and viewing apartment near the park and bracing herself for… everything that would come after. No working at the vocation she so enjoyed. No Belladonna… Wedding a man she did not love, and Emelia knew now. How good it felt to really love.

She opened the door of the Silver Skillet and sighed with relief at the sight of Arthur Morgan, faithfully waiting for her. Dressed in a clean striped shirt in shades of grey. He stood from his seat when he saw her, removing his hat and Emelia found a smile.

“Evenin’ darlin’.”

“Arthur,” Emelia said, and she checked when Arthur pulled her seat out for her. Oh, her coarse gentleman. She did not want to sit, wanting instead, desperately to nestle into his strong arms. But she swallowed down her foolishness and sat primly in her seat, disappointed and feeling so strangely bereft.

“How… how was your day?” she asked as he sat across from her.

“It was… good,” he said, watching her. “And you, Emma?”

She shrugged. “Alright, I suppose.”

“You sure?”

Emelia nodded. “Are you hungry?”

“Starvin’,” he said.

They ordered, and all the while she did not know what to say, allowing Arthur to lead the conversation.

“I’ll be honest,” he said, between bites. “It seems crazy that folk actually make a life of it.”

“Well… I am proud of you,” she said. “You really are doing it.”

“More or less,” he said with a self-deprecating chuckle. “It’s certainly not what I’m used to.”

“But… you’re not hurting anyone this way.”

“Yeah. It sure is something,” he said with a nod. “Getting to know some of these fellers. I mean, uh… well, I guess I get your point now, about it fallin’ to ‘em anyway. Shit flows downhill.”

“Mm hmm.”

“It makes me feel even filthier about the damn lendin’…”

Emelia nodded. She recognized the significance of this. Arthur had been working so hard, being so very true to his word and she could think of nothing more to say to such an important revelation. All because a letter had casually rendered her an orphan. Not for the first time since coming to Blackwater, she felt stupid. What had she expected her mother to do? Send flowers? A congratulatory card? No. Victoria Griswold never forgave a slight. Not even the perceived ones.

“You alright?” Arthur asked.

“Yes,” she said, trying to find a brighter smile. “Of course.”

Arthur watched her. The look in his eyes, and the little twist of his lips, telling her he did not believe her. He raised his brows. “You sure?”

She shrugged, looking down at her hands, unable to meet his perceptive gaze. “It’s nothing,” Emelia said. Then, more quietly, “Nothing you can do anything about, anyway.”

“Try me.”

Emelia pulled the letter out of her jacket pocket. She looked at the now crinkled paper. Still so soft an ivory color. At the broken family seal. Emelia swallowed down the lump in her throat and handed it over.

Arthur took it and looked at the return address. He held her gaze a moment before opening the letter and she watched him, in the short time it took to read the terse little missive. Arthur’s mouth tightened into a grimace, his pale eyes narrowing. The hand holding the letter dropped to the table.

“She serious?” Arthur grumbled, his voice gaining that gruff edge. “So, they just gonna… throw you away? You? For… for… pursuin’ yer own happiness?”

Emelia felt heartened by his naked disgust, girding her like a thick woolen blanket.

“I say we burn this damn letter and to Hell with ‘em,” he continued. “Ruined. What the Hell does she know about ruin?”

Emelia bit her lip. “I did shame them,” she said, feeling a press of guilt and Arthur snorted gracelessly at the very notion. “I…well, I only left Mr. Talbot a letter with his ring, and I said not even a word to my mother.”

“Because you knew she’d stop you.”

Emelia shrugged. “Still…”

Arthur took a breath, firmly setting down his utensils. “You wanna get out of here?” he asked, wiping his mouth.

“And go where?”

“For a walk,” he said, setting his hat on his head. “We’ll take the long way back to that hotel of yours.”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Some fresh air’ll do you good,” he said.

There was a chill to the spring air. Arthur gave Emelia his coat and still she pressed in close to him, nestled at his side, clasping his arm tightly. He led her to the Flat Iron. True to its name the great lake sat very still that night. A mirror reflecting the pale moon and stars above. They were alone, out on the pier of the ferry terminal. The only sounds the gentle lapping of water and the murmuring din of Blackwater.

“Any family in their right mind should be proud of you,” Arthur said, softly. “A lady doctor? Coming out all this way on your own.” He looked down at his boots. “Contending with the likes of me.”

“Some would say I just got lucky,” Emelia said plainly. To be robbed by a good man in a bad life rather than some animal relishing the savagery.

“Maybe,” Arthur conceded. “But… I know God don’t deal the same cards to everyone, and we gotta play ‘em anyway. You decided to go to school. To come out here. To buy a horse and learn to ride an’ prove yourself, time and again. Anyone can hold a gun, darlin’. It’s another thing entirely to hit what you wanna hit.”

Emelia thought of Doctor Thompson and his magic bullet, Morphine. The miracle answer to every ailment, from abscesses to poxes and she smiled at Arthur’s unpolished wisdom.

“To Hell with ‘em, Emma,” Arthur declared. They ain’t the ones livin’ yer life.”

“It still hurts,” she said. “I feel… it is almost like they’ve died, only… they’ve chosen this.”

“I know…” Arthur said, pulling her into him. Warm and secure in his arms, she wound her arms around his waist and squeezed. She could feel the heat of his callused hand, at the back of her neck. Kneading, gentle and calming. “I’m sorry, Emma.”

“I just wish they could understand.”

“Maybe they just need a little time is all,” he offered, and Emelia nodded. Maybe. She tightened her arms around his waist and kept her head tucked tight against his chest, listening to the deep steady thrum of his heart. She breathed the strangely warm scent of tobacco smoke and shaving soap.

“Regardless…,” Arthur said. So soft and sincere. “For whatever it’s worth, I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

Emelia sighed. “You are priceless, Arthur.”

He pulled back from her then, tilting her chin with a gentle touch so he could look into her eyes.

“So,” he began with a little lopsided smirk, his lips pulling to the right. He cleared his throat, working up to something. “You think, uh, maybe, since we’re both orphans an’ all… it were time we built a home for ourselves?”

Emelia blinked, surprised for the second time that day. “You… you mean… live together?”

Arthur nodded, slow and certain. “Though… I suppose the ring should come first.”

Her mouth fell open. “A ring?”

Again, he nodded, still so deathly serious. Emelia’s eyes welled up even as she smiled.

“Where?”

Arthur smiled. “In town, I guess,” he replied, though she guessed the prospect left much to be desired in his eyes. “Maybe somethin’ with a little yard, to keep the horses close. Quit payin’ them stable fees. We can rent it… or buy something -”

“Buy it? But you just said -”

“I got some money, -”

“We’ve talked about this, Arthur… I don’t feel right about it.”

“I know,” he replied. “And I understand yer reasoning, Emma. But… if we don’t use it, the gang is just gonna use it to buy bullets or rum or… I dunno,… snake oil, maybe. I figure this here’s as good a cause as any.”

Emelia bit her lip.

“I swear to you on my momma’s grave it will only be this once. Just to get us started.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “How much do you think we would even need?”

They walked to her hotel. Weighing the pros and cons of flats and cottages and homesteads and her resolve, at least towards his savings, softened.

“You know… Dutch always went on and on about land,” Arthur shared. “First California. Then for a spell he talked about Ambarino. Buying a great big parcel where we could live free. Set our own rules and… return to the Natural Law.”

“I’m still not certain what, exactly, he wants you ‘free’ from,” she said. “I’m fairly certain Cicero decried the theft of personal property.” Was this how Dutch held Arthur so long? With the promise of an actual home? Emelia smiled, her heart full of hope and so eager to help him make it a reality.

“I never really thought about the actual execution,” Arthur admitted. “But I’m startin’ to think a farm or ranch would be… all right. Eventually.”

Emelia grinned. “You aim to work a farm Mr. Morgan?”

“Heh, I ain’t afraid of work,” he said with a chuckle. “Particularly if I got a good woman to enjoy the spoils with me.”

Emelia sighed, content despite the terrible letter and sudden strange grief. Her heart still ached at how easily her family could deny her, but Arthur… oh, Arthur. Instinctive and intuitive, he softened the blow with a dream and a promise of a home. Cast out but far from alone.

They came to the Blackwater Hotel and Arthur opened the door. Emelia looked up at him, so handsome and supportive and she found she did not want to say goodnight. Not tonight. Never again.

“Arthur,” she said. “Could you please walk me to my room.”

“Sure,” he replied, offering his arm.

They climbed the stairs to the third floor in a strange, expectant hush, neither speaking. Their steps muffled on the plush runners. They came to her room and Emelia unlocked the door before turning to him. Again, she stared up at him, her eyes lingering over his squared, handsome face. At the scars in his chin and lower lip. His hesitant little smile. Eyes so midnight blue in the dim hallway lamps and the request stuck in her throat.

“Goodnight, Emelia,” Arthur said, removing his hat and leaning down to kiss her. He kissed as sweetly, as gently, as always and Emelia felt that warmth in the pit of her stomach and knew only that she wanted more. She fisted the collar of his shirt and pulled him in, deepening a sweet kiss goodnight into something torrid and when she took his lower lip between her teeth, she heard the low, needy rumble in his throat, felt the pressure of his hand splaying against the small of her back, pulling her flush against his firm body. And the heat seeped lower still.

“Stay with me,” she gasped against his lips.

Arthur gently framed her face in his hands. Hands she’d once been so afraid of. He paused for breath and his bright blue eyes fluttered open and Emelia marveled at how dazed and glassy they seemed. Did Arthur feel as dizzy as she? All lightheaded and giddy. Was this what love did? Rendering one drunk without a single shot.

“Emma… not that I don’t want you,” Arthur began, staring into her eyes. He brought his lips back to hers, as if pulled, irrevocably by gravity. His words lost in all the heated, needy, open-mouthed sparking, and she hoped, wildly, that he would press forward and take the lead.

And then, suddenly, he pulled away. Pressing his forehead to hers, gasping.

“Oh, I want you…” Arthur groaned. “I do. But…”

Emelia’s heart sank. “But?”

“Yer upset now, and I think…” Arthur paused, his gaze flicking back to her lips again and Emelia hoped he would fall back in. Instead he briefly closed his eyes and took a breath. “I don’t want it to be like this. Mucked up with all this hurt yer feeling.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Emelia whimpered.

“I gotta darlin’,” Arthur whispered, still cradling her head in his hands. He pressed his lips to hers. Gentle and trembling. A soft, soothing little kiss. Then he dragged his lips to her cheeks, her eyelids, her forehead…easing them both back from the precipice.

She gripped his wrists, staring up at him pleadingly. “Please?”

“I can’t stay. I don’t trust myself,” Arthur replied. He took a deep, steadying breath. “Christ… I love you, Emma.”

“Then why won’t you stay?”

Arthur chuckled at that, pulling her firmly into his arms. “Because I love you,” he repeated against the crown of her head. “People can be damn fools and I don’t want yer doctorin’ sufferin’ over some silly ‘scandal’. You’ve worked too damn hard. Sacrificed too much.”

“I don’t care.”

“You hear yourself?” he asked. Arthur pressed his lips to her forehead again, lingering a moment. “Yer not thinkin’ straight now.”

Emelia hugged him tighter. “I am thinking clear enough to know what I want,” she retorted.

Arthur sighed. “I know, Em, I know. But... I’ve waited a real long time for this. Just… lemme do right by you.”

Emelia looked up at him then, staring into his eyes. At his dear, scarred face. Amazed by her gentle, wounded buck and she suspected he would surprise her for years to come. She nodded, smiling up at him.

“We’ll make ourselves a proper home,” Arthur said. He smiled, right to his eyes. “Swear it.”


	23. Two Wolves

“Good to see you, Hosea.”

Dutch Van der Linde stood in the shade of the Inn’s wrap-around balcony. Dressed with all the style of a showman. Brocade vest and crimson red. A gold watchchain and pristine felt-hat set jauntily upon his gleaming black hair.

“And you,” the older conman replied.

Dutch grinned. “Care to grab a quiet drink?”

“Sure.”

They continued across the bustling cobbled street, between wagons and coaches, to the saloon.

The late afternoon sun streamed in, slanting, from the clear windows, warming the worn floor-boards. Still quiet at three o’clock in the afternoon, poised for the after-work rush. Behind the dark wooden bar, the bartender sliced lemon and lime, while the waitress prepared trays of cold-cuts, cheese and pickles. They paused in their work to smile at their customers.

“Why hello!” the bartender boomed. Absently, he wiped his hand on his apron. His green vest shot through with stripes of gold.

“Can I get you fellers anything,” the wispy, blond waitress asked.

“A bottle of Red Eye, would be mighty fine, miss,” Dutch said. “We’ll be upstairs.”

She smiled with a nod. “I’ll be right there, Mister.”

Up on the men’s floor, away from the windows, they took a seat on one of the sofas. The waitress followed them up with a tray. The bottle of bourbon flanked by two tumblers. She set it down on the low table before them.

“Can I fetch anything else? Some grub, maybe? Peanuts?”

“Not just yet, my dear,” Dutch replied. “But thank you.”

She blushed before hastening away.

“So, how’s the family?” Hosea inquired pouring them each a generous helping of the fine stuff.

“Excellent!” Dutch stated. “Money’s comin’ in and eatin’s been good, thanks to Charles.”

“That boy sure can hunt.”

“Good thing, too, with some slowing down like they have.”

Hosea looked at Dutch a moment.  “I’m fairly certain Charles doesn’t mind,” he offered diplomatically, handing Dutch a glass. “You said work’s been good?”

“The boys are keeping pressure on them stages.”

Hosea raised a silver brow. “Still?”

Dutch swirled the drink in his hand. “We’ve eased up some on them supply rackets.”

“That’s good,” Hosea said.

“No need to attract any undue attention,” Dutch added, leaning back. He took a sip. “And the girls have been enjoying their little trips to the pantry, so to speak. That tip you gave Mary-Beth, on that sleazy doc’s wife? Girl made off with a few hundred in jewelry and bills.”

Hosea chuckled. “Serves ‘im right. Filthy snake-oil peddler.”

“A man after Swanson’s own heart.”

They shared a laugh at the morphine-addled Reverend’s expense. Each taking a long pull of the deep, amber liquor.

“This town,” Hosea said. He paused, allowing the Red Eye’s smoky, caramel notes to dissipate off his tongue. “It’s built on cons and kickbacks upon kickbacks. A miracle the whole thing hasn’t come down yet. Makes me feel like an amateur, to be honest.”

“Sweet civilization.”

“I’m being serious. Here these fellers are, robbing people blind to a tune we can only dream and they’re living in fine comfort, right under the law. I guess, sometimes I just feel like we’re doing something wrong.”

“The only thing we do wrong is not play by their rules. Can’t place a price on living free and hoping for a better, kinder world, Hosea.”

“No, I suppose. Still… no reason not to get a little profit out of it for ourselves.”

“No reason at all.”

“We’ve been working on something big. A solid lead that’ll have us fleecing these crooks. I won’t bore you with the details, but I’m feeling really good about this.”

“How much you hopin’ to come away with?”

“A few thousand, easily,” Hosea said modestly, thinking anywhere between ten to thirty thousand. Still, he was not one to blow smoke. “Just a few details to work out to keep it clean. And John.”

Dutch smirked. “Why you need John?”

“Always good to have a partner on these things. And Arthur’s taken up with his own business these days.”

Dutch shook his head with a smirk.

“Yes, Strauss and Micah have told me all about her,” he said with an amused gleam in his dark eyes. “The second coming of Mary Gillis, am I right?”

“Not exactly,” Hosea replied.

Dutch let out a chuckle. “So, how serious is it?” he inquired. “Should I expect another wayward soul to join our camp?”

“Um… no,” Hosea said. “Actually… he’s investigating some property.”

Dutch nearly spit out his bourbon.

“Property?” he echoed with an incredulous laugh. “Arthur? He doesn’t know the first thing about property.”

Arthur had come to Hosea that morning, leading Boadicea, bright-eyed and smiling. Talking about some Act and needing to see about a horse. “Had a few options,” Hosea said. “One up in Big Valley, in particular, had him excited.”

“Our Arthur?”

“He’s had… an interesting few weeks,” Hosea shared. “Started with the contractors for the first little while. Then by chance, helped some feller. A spooked horse that went and pulled a tendon.”

“How does he always manage to trip over these fools?” Dutch asked with a laugh and Hosea could only shrug. As if troubled folk sensed, in some supernatural way, his capability and willingness to help despite all his blustering to the contrary.

“Well, this fool was wealthy,” Hosea said. “They got to talking and the man was so impressed he offered Arthur a job on retainer.”

“Retainer?”

Hosea checked at Dutch’s tone. “Yes…,” he said, leaning back so he could better watch his friend’s expression. “About twenty a week.”

“Twenty dollars,” Dutch repeated.

Hosea nodded. “It’s pretty good,” he said. Better than mending fences, for certain. A promising start. “Some local horse farmer. Think his name was McCourt.”

“And he actually accepted?”

“It gives them a good start.”

“Chicken-feed,” Dutch said dismissively, chuckling. “For doin’ what? Shoveling this man’s horse shit? Teach his brats how to ride?”

“More the breaking and training, from the sounds of it.”

“This is beneath him. A waste of his talents, Hosea. Retainer? It is practically slavery! When we have all these opportunities before us?”

Hosea frowned.

“Will you talk to him, Hosea?” Dutch requested. “Make him see some sense.”

“Why does this have you so wound up?” Hosea asked frankly. “You didn’t balk like this when I left with. Or when John ran off.”

Dutch took another hearty sip and studied the remaining liquid in his glass. “I got a plan,” he began in a low voice. “A real good one that’ll finally get us – all of us – that land we wanted. Not just some dirt farm. But California. Enough acreage to live free.”

“Oh yeah? And what is this plan?”

“Micah got us a solid lead…”

“From where?”

“A fool teller, new to town and already a costumer of our good Herr Strauss.”

“Convenient.”

“He shared that the bank has stopped all stage transfers. For some odd reason, they’ve come to the conclusion that it’s become too risky.”

Hosea chuckled. “Imagine that.”

“It is beautiful how things always come together,” Dutch laughed. “Their intention is to move a large sum. All at once.”

“How much?”

“Two. Hundred. Thousand.”

Hosea blinked. “Come again?”

A slow smiled crept across Dutch’s face. “You heard me.”

Hosea took a gulp of bourbon. Processed the sheer amount in his mind while the liquid burned its way down. “When?”

“May ninth.”

“May ninth?” About two weeks away.

“I want you to case the terminal and find me the path of least resistance, my good friend.”

“Dutch, the terminal. It’s right across the street from – “

“I know,” Dutch said quickly, excited in a way Hosea had not seen in a very long time. “We pull this job, Hosea and we’re off into the sunset! It’s almost poetic. The last great gang pulls the heist of the century and then retires. To California, Hosea. Imagine!”

“I’ve got my own job,” he said. “Quieter. Safer.” A sure thing in comparison. A sure thing that did not feel so… wrong.

“And far less profitable,” Dutch dead-panned.

Hosea crossed his arms. “When did this become a pissing contest?”

Dutch sighed. “Alright. I’m sorry. But I need you on board,” Dutch said, cajoling. “At least help me plan this thing. Give me a… consultation. You’re a genius with this business.”

“This isn’t a bank,” Hosea said. “A building you can control the entrance points and limit civilian intrusion. With this ferry… a St. Denis ferry… there’s going to be a lot of folk. On the decks and the lobbies and the pier and even on that dock. It has serious potential to become… messy.”

“And we want to do this as quiet, with as little fuss, as possible,” Dutch assured. “That’s how we always do things. You know that.”

Hosea scoffed. “Does Micah know that?”

“Of course he does,” Dutch replied. “Why do you think he was so eager to join up with us?”

Hosea looked at his friend, doubtful. He sighed. “Alright,” he said reluctantly. “I’ll give it some thought over the next few days. Give you my… professional recommendations.”

Dutch clapped him on the back with a grin.

“This is all coming together, my friend! I just need to get my best gun back on board and we’ll be all set.”

“Leave Arthur out of this,” Hosea said firmly. “He’s got a _real_ shot here.”

“A shot at what, Hosea?” Dutch asked, chuckling again. “Dirt farming? He can find a pretty girl anywhere. Hell, we got a few in camp already.”

“A shot at a better life.”

“A better life?” Dutch demanded and Hosea could not miss the indignance in his voice. “This is our boy, Hosea. He is like a son to me.”

“And to me,” Hosea retorted.

“Then why abandon him now? Just when things are coming together so perfectly? We can’t leave him.”

“And what’s wrong with building an honest life with a woman? If that’s what he wants? I tried the same with Bessie."

“Yes, and look how that turned out," Dutch said. "Not that I didn't warn you."

“Bessie died," Hosea reminded him, voice cold.

“Yes," Dutch agreed quietly. He had the decency to look a little contrite. "And I am sorry for it. You were lucky, Hosea. At least you will always have fond memories of her. Poor Arthur. He's riding right into the same mess he got caught in with Mary. She broke his heart. You weren’t there. You didn’t have to see it. Arthur’d have given that girl the shirt off his own back, and what did she do?  Told him she was marrying some other man. Never even gave back the ring. How can we let it happen again?"

“Emelia isn’t Mary,” Hosea said.

“You’re right, Hosea. The Gillis family were only pretenders, whereas the Griswolds are old, Eastern money. The gilded industrialist enemy. There is no way Arthur will ever satisfy a girl from that world. We both know it.”

“That isn’t…” Hosea began, but he stopped. Dutch would never see past the name. In the end it did not matter. “This is Arthur’s decision to make.”

Dutch shook his head in denial, frowning. He twisted the rings on his fingers with his thumb, thinking.

“I say we let him try,” Hosea reasoned. “If it doesn’t work out, then I know he’ll come find us. And if he doesn’t…” The older thief shrugged. “Well, I’ll be happy for him.”

Dutch took a slow sip and stared at Hosea for a long moment, clearly unhappy with the idea. He placed his tumbler on the table, with a strong, agitated hand. Finally, in a tone devoid of emotion he said; “Just case the terminal.”

He left then without saying another word.

Hosea finished his drink, ill at ease and wondering why Arthur’s departure shook Dutch so. He descended to the first floor and paid the bill before heading out into the early evening. Hosea took a stroll. Along the Flat Iron and that single beautiful covered pier and the fine ticketing building of the Lemoyne Eastern Riverboat Company. The distinguished thief checked the docking times. A ferry departed every evening at 6:00 pm. To arrive in St. Denis by 7:30 am. Saturday offered a day trip, departing at 9am, but that was not the trip in question.

The money would no doubt be transferred to the ferry in a lockbox, perhaps several, by armed escort and secured sometime shortly after the bank closed at 5pm. Would the escort stay? It was a possibility. The gang would need to plan for that eventuality.

The boarding of passengers would likely commence around 4:00 pm. They would need to assume that civilians would be present.

Storming the deck would be stupid; moving up the covered pier, possibly under fire. Moving through the ship.  Locating the lock boxes, and then back through the ship and up that same pier to escape. Bottle necked both ways. Panic would have ensued from the onset and the police would already be on the scene and entrenched. They would not need to cross and would have the advantage of time, taking cover behind the lower portion of the deck and the ticketing station. Meanwhile, the gang would need to fight up the pier with no cover on the ferry-side. No cover except for human bodies. Everyone dies.

No.

Having the gang board under the guise of passengers would be the best option. Would allow them to get into position and even locate the lockboxes prior to initiating the Heist. Dynamite would be a fool’s errand. They would need to crack any safe with patience or convince them to open it. Hopefully it would only be lockboxes and the souls guarding them.

Hosea would take the day trip to St. Denis and see.

It was getting out that concerned Hosea most. Escaping to the North would lead them directly out of town, and into some difficult terrain along the Upper Montana. A good chance of a horse breaking a leg, but also a chance to readily lose the law. It also led away from camp.

To the South, back to camp, would be a mess. Down Sisika Avenue. Hedged in by the busy store fronts along the right and the Flat Iron on the left. A rock and a hard place… clear after the Fishmongers, if you considered residential areas as ‘clear’.

A gentle spring breeze rolled off the lake and Hosea took a great breath. Two hundred thousand dollars. A King’s Ransom. Hosea had to admit that, even in just the plotting, it gave him that same pleasant thrill that kept him so firm and secure in this dangerous life. It would be the gang’s most ambitious heist. One for the history books, if they could pull it off.

Except… he could not shake the gnawing dread. Why a passenger ferry, he wondered, and not a small mail steamer? Why tell a simple teller, new to town? Hosea’s stomach churned. The sort of nervous unease that turned bowels to water and he knew, deep in his bones, that something was not right.


	24. To Build a Home

“So… how exactly are we gonna break her without… well… breakin’ her?” Jimmy asked.

Arthur kept his attention firmly on the palomino as she trotted around the corral. He stayed in the center, walking in tight circles, shoulders squared to the horse, lasso in hand. He kept her moving clockwise with a simple wave of the lariat toward her flank and a click of his tongue. Another more insistent wave, followed by a double-click, got her to a trot and then Arthur watched. Looking for the sign that she was ready.

“Really, Morgan!” The young ranch hand’s voice carried a note of bored exasperation. “No rider…?”

“What?” Arthur asked. “You want more bruises?”

“Aw, hell, it weren’t so bad,” Jimmy said, chuckling. “It’d be more excitin’ than this!”

Arthur chuffed. “You are more than welcome to go back to pullin’ calves, kid.”

Like this damn kid, Lyle Morgan prided himself on being able to ride anything. No matter how they bucked or fishtailed, Lyle managed to cling like a burr to that saddle and dig those spurs in harder.

“You don’t gentle an animal,” he used to say. A theory he applied to all things, truth be told. His son included. “You break ‘em.”

“How’s it goin’?” Mr. McCourt asked. Arthur did not spare him a glance.

Jimmy snorted. “He’s got her trotting in circles.”

Arthur let his hands fall to his side and said “whoa.”

The mare stopped and looked at him. Eyes dark and alert rather than all glazed and rimmed white with fear. Arthur began stepping counter clockwise, leading her like in a dance and she turned to follow. He gave her the now familiar cue; the wave of the lariat to her flank, about where a rider’s leg would rest and clicked his tongue. She set off smartly.

“Good girl,” Arthur drawled. He waved again, double clicking and she eased up to the trot. The line between her ears and tail leveled out and Arthur smiled.

Again, he motioned for her to stop and she did so. Arthur stepped toward her and she tossed her head but made no other move.

“Easy,” he said, speaking in low, soothing tones. Trust and consent. Like finding his way with Emma. Never pressing for more than she was inclined to give and so he approached in the same way. Watching her cues; easing when she stiffened and continuing when she went soft and willing. Until Arthur laid his hand against the arch of her neck, the color of sun ripened wheat. He grasped her halter.

“That’s my girl,” he said.

“Well, ain’t that something,” Jimmy muttered with a whistle. A light seemed to go on upstairs. As if the kid never once thought that maybe, just maybe, a horse was an actual intelligent creature to be communicated with.

Arthur’s childhood had been like crossing a frozen lake on thin ice. Every movement cautious. Afraid even to breathe. With horses he could relax. They spoke their truth with their whole bodies. They did not lure him in with kind words or false affection only to inflict pain and Arthur knew it without ever learning it. In the same way he woke just before the sun would rise or felt the coming summer storm in the heaviness of the air. There was simply no lying in them.

“Considerin’ she was a snorting, bucking mess two days ago?” Mr. McCourt asked. “Yes. Yes, it is something.”

“She just needed to know it could be easy,” Arthur said.

“I think that’s about it for today,” Mr. McCourt said, smiling. “How about you take the rest of the day, Morgan. And tomorrow. Get yourselves settled in.”

“It’s a might bit too generous Mr. McCourt,” Arthur said. He looked down at the rope in his hands. “I’ll be honest… I don’t feel right acceptin’.”

“Nonsense,” McCourt said gruffly. “No one is using the damn thing and the time you’re wasting travelling could be better spent here.”

Arthur looked at his employer. Eric McCourt was not a tall man. He stood no more than five foot eight, with a stout wiry frame and red wiry hair. But he had a presence. McCourt had not dodged the draft. He served, though he never spoke about it. A survivor.

“Well, thank you,” Arthur said with a tip of his hat. Would Emelia go for it, he wondered, living so far out of town. Surely there could be no harm in asking. “It’s… well it’s mighty kind of you.”

“It’s settled then,” McCourt said with a laugh. “Go fetch her.”

“I beg yer pardon, sir?”

“You know,” Mr. McCourt said, green eyes merry. “My daughter Heidi is pretty excited about this. Mrs. McCourt too, to be honest.”

“Is she now?”

He nodded. “They’re certain it’ll be nice having another lady living close to keep company with. And that young doctor is a fine lady.”

Arthur blew out a little breath and tried to hide his smile. “I have certainly noticed.”

“You’re not fooling anyone,” McCourt said bluntly. “So go fetch her.”

“You sure it’s no trouble?”

“Heidi seems convinced you’ll be calling upon the preacher soon,” the older man said. “That’s enough to satisfy my own morals on the subject.”

The McCourts lived on a great parcel upon the plains, to the south and west of Blackwater. When Mr. Eric McCourt had first staked his claim, after the Civil War, they had started with little more than a single room cabin, near the Flat Iron. Eventually, with the same stubborn grit that saw him through the war, McCourt prospered and as his herd grew, so too, did his fortune.

That cabin still stood on site. It was this that Mr. McCourt offered to entice what he called a ‘family-minded prospect’ to remain on site. Arthur decided to take a proper look before heading into town.

Though crafted of weathered log, the cabin had been kept in good order, serving as a guest house. It sat on a small rise, and Arthur could see the newer ranch house surrounded with gardens. The small porch sat south facing, cluttered with two old chairs and some flower boxes, dead and empty. Two windows flanked the entrance.

Arthur committed it to the journal before pushing the door open on its creaking hinges. He peered into the gloom and his eyes adjusted. A square wooden table surrounded by four chairs sat in the center of the room and cold stone hearth was set into the north wall. Cupboards and counter space with a wash basin and black iron stove took up the western wall. The floor boards groaned beneath Arthur’s weight as he moved about, drawing back the old flannel curtains, letting in light. A fine layer of dust coated the surfaces. It would need a woman’s touch, he thought. Tucked in the north-eastern corner, beneath a window, sat a double bed. Wire framed and stripped bare. Arthur stared at it a moment, and he did indeed think of Emma’s touch. Of how she looked at him, all those nights ago, pressed tight and wanting and her kiss. Oh, how she kissed. He could still feel the scrape and pull of her pliant mouth, all need and hunger and how she seemed to meld to him.

Arthur would ask her, though he worried with all the anxiety of a man rejected in the past. How would Emelia receive such simplicity? A single room, modestly furnished, when she had grown up in…well, Arthur could not imagine. From what Emelia described, all vast expanses of marble and glass and an army of servants to dwarf the gang it may as well have been a palace.

He rode into town, puzzling how exactly to couch the news. Blackwater, with all the graft and corruption lingering just beneath the surface, took on a serene quality on a sunny Saturday. It was just past four o’clock and the sun still came through the Surgery, warm and strong. Arthur found a seat in the waiting room and sprawled out a little, lowering his hat over his eyes.

Twenty minutes passed before the click of the inner door roused him. Emelia finally emerged, with an older woman, about Arthur’s own age, if he had to guess. He stood and removed his hat and Emelia’s gaze pulled to him. Color crept to her cheeks and she granted him a quick, acknowledging smile before forcing her attention back to her patient. The lady clutched a brown bottle to her laced breast, like something precious.

“Only take a drink when a headache becomes intolerable,” Emelia cautioned. “The less you drink, the better. And do keep track of when you succumb.”

“Smells and sounds?” the woman asked. “What I ate prior? Really, Doctor?”

“Of course, Mrs. Purdy,” Emelia replied. “It does us no good to throw Laudanum at the symptoms while neglecting to find the true cause, would you not agree?”

“I don’t have that kind of time, Doctor.”

“Please, Mrs. Purdy. Indulge me.”

They both watched Mrs. Purdy leave, waiting until the door closed before she turned her attention fully to him. She smiled.

“Hello, Arthur,” she said so sweetly.

“Emma,” he replied, and he sucked in a breath when she stepped into his space and reached for his face. He bent to kiss her. Met her soft lips and she kissed him with that same stirring need that threatened his careful restraint.

“Oh, I’ve missed you,” she said on a breath, once they parted. She gazed into his eyes, her hands against his chest. “How are you, Arthur?”

Oh, this girl…

He swallowed. “Fine,” Arthur managed, taking a step back to a more proper distance. He smiled. “Tough day?”

“You would think I were asking them to fly,” Emelia lamented.

“Even you can’t cure stupid,” he replied with a smirk.

“That’s not very kind of you, Mr. Morgan.”

“But it is true,” Arthur declared, suppressing his smile. He had so much to tell her. He still held his hat in his hands, pulling the brim through his fingers.

Emelia no doubt saw the nervousness in him. She smiled, knowingly. “What is it?” she asked, raising a brow.

“Can we, uh, leave?” he asked. “Could you come for a ride with me? After Services tomorrow? I… well, darlin, I got somethin’ I’d like to show you.”

“Bella and I would be delighted,” Emelia replied. “Is it a secret?”

“I found us a place,” he said and Emelia gasped.

“You have?”

“Temporairly,” Arthur said warily. He had not expected this level of blind eagerness. Would she be disappointed when she saw it? “Can we, uh, take a walk?”

“Yes…” she said. “Yes, of course, Arthur.”

He waited for her to lock up and mark on the board that she would be back soon. Emelia skipped over to him and linked her arm with his. She leaned in and conspiratorially she said, “I am all yours.”

No going back now, Arthur thought grimly.

“I know we talked about bein’ in town an’ all, but between the care and the training,” he began, hoping she’d be willing to hear it out at very least. Arthur’s experience being he had no place to question or change the Plan. “The McCourts would like me onsite.”

“Heidi has mentioned it,” Emelia said. “Well, that her father had offered you a job, at any rate.”

“I’m sorry, Emma,” he said. “I didn’t wanna say anythin’ ‘til I knew what exactly I’d be doin’ there.”

“Then… I assume this means you have accepted?”

Something in Emelia’s tone gave him pause. “You don’t sound too pleased,” Arthur said anxiously. Fully prepared to abandon his own designs and declare his commitment to anything she designed.

Instead, Emelia surprised him.

“Oh, Arthur,” she sighed. “Look at you! You’ve found your way, so quickly, despite your protests to the contrary that night.” She peeped up at him, and her smile grew more genuine. Proud even. She squeezed his arm. “And just a whisper of a scar.”

Arthur could feel the damn heat rising in his face and he looked down, trying to hide his smile. “You’ve given me mighty fine incentive, darlin’.”

Emelia giggled. “And you don’t give yourself near enough credit,” she said. “But, about Mr. McCourt’s offer… What has this to do with us?”

“He’s got a cabin on the property,” Arthur said, and Emelia’s eyes widened.

“Oh my. You mean… for us to share?”

He nodded.

“Living in town would have kept me close to the Surgery,” Emelia deliberated, chewing her lip. “Though, Doctor Thompson does leave the house calls to me. And walking from the hotel to the stables…plus the fees…”

“We really need to stay in town then?”

“No,” she conceded. “I can make the trip to restock, when needed and I could mark any address on the chalk board. More importantly; is Mr. McCourt prepared to have a physician on site?” she asked. “With riders wandering onto his property at any hour of the day and night?”

Arthur chuckled. “That daughter of his… Heidi was it? Christ, that girl is a chatterbox.”

Emelia giggled. “Yes, she is.”

“Well, they know it’s you. That we’re, uh… fixin’ to get married,” he said. “An’ set on livin’ common-law, prior to all that.”

Emelia grinned. “You’ve thought of everything.”

“An’ it won’t cost us a thing,” he continued, growing bolder as she warmed to the idea. “Beyond keeping our own… well, our own house. Makes the savin’ easy.”

“Saving?” Emelia asked with a curious little smile. “For?”

“That, Worthington kid? The do-gooder clerk?”

“Aldous?”

“That’s him,” Arthur confirmed, nodding. “Says there’s this homestead up north of Strawberry that’s gone defaulted.”

“A homestead,” Emelia asked.

“Well, a ranch more like. Three-hundred and twenty acres in the Big Valley area. Fertile. Near a water source, and good grazing for horses, apparently.”

“A ranch,” she asked, eyes wide. “You have been busy! How much are they asking for it?”

“Free,” Arthur replied.

“No,” she said, though her smile only grew. “That can’t be right.”

“It’s some government act. Just gotta be head of a family to apply,” he paused and looked at her. He lowered his voice. “I sure am hopin’ you’ll help me with that sooner than later, sweetheart.”

Emelia grinned, color coming to her fine cheeks. “Oh… you may be able to convince me.”

Arthur grasped that coy little admittance with a good measure of hope and suppressed his own smile. Afraid of looking like some besotted fool. Soon, he thought. He cleared his throat. “After that we just need to pay the damn taxes on it. If we can live there for five years, it’s ours.”

Taxes… Arthur almost laughed at the idea and imagined the look on Dutch’s face. Any land they bought anywhere would not remain theirs long if they did not learn the rules of the game.

“Hmm, so there is a catch.”

“I do not know the first thing about runnin’ a ranch,” Arthur admitted. “So I reckon McCourt is offerin’ an education I can’t pass up.”

“And what about me?” she asked, earnestly. “My practice…?”

They had reached the dock by now. Arthur paused, coming in front of her.

“Emma, there’s always gonna be folk in need of yer skills. I…” Arthur faltered. It was strange. Admitting out loud that the world might not want or need what you offer. “I can’t say the same for mine.”

Emelia’s smile wavered, understanding. She reached up, stroking his cheek and nodded. “Okay, Arthur,” she said, quietly. “And how lucky for us, that Mr. Worthington even thought to inform you of this.”

“Well,” Arthur said. “The thing is…”

Emelia caught on to his hesitation too quick. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What did you do?”

“Nothin’ too terrible,” Arthur said. “He appreciated my discretion in, uh, acquirin’ certain documentation on his behalf.”

“Arthur!”

“Hey, now, it weren’t exactly stealin’,” Arthur tried to explain, voice low. “Not like, money from folk or anythin’.”

Emelia’s hands braced on her hips. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Well, sure,” he replied, feeling a touch maligned. “Considerin’ it were nothin’ more than the, uh… acquisition of evidence.”

Something flickered across her pretty face. “Evidence?”

“A ledger,” he said with a shrug. “To assist honest lawmen in, er, buildin’ a case against internal corruption.”

“Corruption,” she repeated. “In the local police force?” Emelia swallowed, looking at him steadily.

“What would you call bribes and false hangings?” Arthur asked, leaning toward her with a smirk. “Or a failure to make any arrest in certain cases?”

“So you’re saying it’s true.”

Arthur nodded.

“And Aldous… Mr. Worthington, he approached you… why?”

“He… may have some idea as to what I am, er… was.” He crossed his arms. “Figured I could help.”

“And you just… did it?”

Arthur shrugged. “I dunno,” he said. “Felt right, I guess.”

Emelia looked out over the water and let out a sad, heavy sigh, clearly unhappy.

“So, yer sayin’ it’s better to do nothin’?” he demanded. “That’s bein’ ‘good’?”

“Oh, Arthur… I don’t know,” Emelia admitted, so humble and true. “I don’t have all the answers. All I know is you have such a good heart.” She paused a moment, looking at him, blinking. “What would have happened if you were caught?”

He looked away. “Nothin’ good, I reckon.”

Emelia nodded, understanding. “I… I love you. And… perhaps it is selfish of me,” she said, lacing her fingers with his own. She stared at their hands a moment before bringing her gaze to his eyes. She bit her lip and then said, “Please. I don’t want to bury you, Arthur.”

There was simply no lying in her, and Arthur felt his heart swell at the sight of her honest concern. “I warned you I weren’t any good,” he said.

“Oh, it’s not the being good you have a problem with,” Emelia said, staring up at him with those doe-like eyes. So gentle and earnest. They were both quiet a moment and then, a soft little smile twisted her lips. “Law-abiding on the other hand…”

Sweet, stubborn little thing.

“Doctor Griswold,” he said, chuckling. “Are you teasin’ me now?”

Emelia giggled, dark eyes gleaming. Arthur could not help but lean in then and graze that smile with his own. Oh, Emma. She was not the first woman Arthur had looked at with a mouthful of forevers. He tried twice before; once for love and once for duty and twice rejected. He hoped, oh he hoped, Emelia would be the last.


	25. Know Who You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuesday, April 25th. Arthur asks for something.

“Oh, Arthur.”

The logs were a weathered grey on the exterior, with a peaked roof of wooden shakes. The little yard was overgrown with tall grass and wildflowers Emelia did not yet know the names of. “It’s perfect!”

Arthur chuckled. “You ain’t even seen inside yet.”

Emelia giggled. “But it’s ours!”

“For now,” Arthur said, soberly.

Emelia looked at him, her handsome retired outlaw, dressed in his Sunday best. A blue felt vest and crisp white shirt. Emelia could not help the soaring optimism that bubbled in her heart, but she sensed the apprehension that clung to him like hair on a dog. “It’s ours for now,” Emelia amended with a warm smile. “And that is good enough for me.” She grasped Arthur’s tough hands. “Oh… let’s just spend the night here,” she suggested.

“You sure?” Arthur stammered. A small frown creased his brow, even as a hopeful little smile teased at the corners of his mouth, and his blue eyes... He blinked and it was gone.

“Let’s not waste another moment,” Emelia declared. “Let’s spend the night and cancel my hotel in the morning. I’ll write the address on the chalk board at the surgery tomorrow and people can call on me here and -”

Emelia rushed up the three steps into the shade of the little porch and twirled.

“Yes. We can make this a home,” she decided. Emelia looked at the empty flowerboxes. “I’ll plant herbs and flowers. Lavender and chamomile and prairie poppies and anything else your mother used to grow.”

Emelia settled her hand on the railing. Arthur stood in the little yard. Bathed in fine sunshine, grinning.

“It’s perfect,” Emelia professed. “Everything is just perfect.”

Arthur sighed, shaking his head as he stared up at her in wonder. “You really do make this easy.”

Emelia simpered. “Shall you give me the tour, Mr. Morgan?” she asked sweetly.

Arthur’s smile faded.

“Emma,” he said, gravely serious. Arthur removed his hat and ran his fingers through his hair to tame it, the dark waves turned bronze in the sunlight. Arthur climbed the stairs with slow, measured steps to join her on that porch. Anxious like some great, life altering truth weighed on his conscience. It reminded Emelia a little of the way her brother Edward carried himself that day, when he came to tell her father had passed. Worry began to creep into her joy.

 “Darlin’.”

 “Arthur?”

The outlaw took Emelia’s hands within his grasp. He took a single steadying breath. Exhaled, and dropped to one knee on empty lungs.

“Arthur,” she breathed.

He hinted at it, more than hinted, a few times now and still the sight of Arthur down on one knee left Emelia reeling. His handsome face tipped towards hers, hat over his heart. Her hands trembled within his grip.

 “Emma.” A nervous little smile pulled the corner of Arthur’s mouth. “Now… I know I ain’t perfect” he began, self-deprecating as ever. “I’ve screwed up with my special brand of genius more times than I care to count.”

Emelia bit her lip and blinked away her tears. _Oh, don’t cry, you silly girl. He’ll think you’re unhappy…_

“I don’t have anythin’ to offer,” Arthur continued.

“Oh, Arthur,” Emelia sighed, and Arthur looked at her, blue-eyes wide. Oh, would that he could see himself through her eyes. “You’ve delivered on every single promise you’ve made to me.”

“You have set me on the path to bein’ the man I have always wanted to be,” Arthur said solemnly. “An’ I swear to you, Emelia, I am gonna give this, you, my very best shot. So… you think a fine lady like you could ever consider, maybe…” Arthur faltered a moment, looking away. “What I mean to say, is -”

“Do you swear we’ll be partners?” Emelia asked, finding her voice. Arthur met her gaze. “That in anything and everything we embark upon, it will be together? As equals?”

Arthur nodded. “I’d have it no other way.” He swallowed his misplaced worry and more firmly he asked, “Will you marry me?”

Emelia’s vision blurred. “Yes,” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around Arthur’s neck, bodily against his solid frame. Arthur almost fell back, chuckling at the sheer physicality of her enthusiasm.

“That’s it?” Arthur asked, incredulous. “You sure?”

Emelia braced his head between her hands and kissed him full on his mouth and felt the smile beneath her lips. After pulling away, she bit her lower lip and starred at him and answered him with all seriousness. “Without doubt, Arthur.”

Arthur wrapped his arm around Emelia’s waist before he stood, pulling her up with him. He frowned a moment, looking at her squarely. “If yer family was upset with you before…”

He did not need to finish the thought. They would _loathe_ him, certainly, without knowing a single thing about him. They would add this ‘transgression’ to the growing list of reasons for casting her from the family.

Emelia laid her hands against Arthur’s chest and stared up into his dear, weathered expression. They were each other’s family now. “Oh, let them be upset,” Emelia declared cheerfully. Let them suffer in their mansions and through their five course benefits and their wealthy ennui. “I have _you_. That’s coming out ahead, I ‘reckon’.”

A smile cracked Arthur’s face, and he looked off into the distance, blinking away the offending moisture in his eyes. Emelia reached for Arthur, sliding her fingers into the dark hair feathering at the nape of his neck and pulled him down for a much-desired kiss.

“How you always so sure all the time?” Arthur asked as they parted, setting his hat back on his head.

“It might look that way,” Emelia said, laying her palm to his cheek. “But in truth I just know that I love you.”

Arthur chuffed another bewildered little laugh and reached into his pocket. “Well… it ain’t much,” he warned, taking her left hand. So humble in everything he accomplished. “About as rough an’ unpolished as I am…”

He slipped it on her finger. A single oval turquoise set in a halo of tiny, uncut stones like chips of clean, clear ice. Diamonds in the rough. Held together with a ribbon of thin gold. Emelia’s voice failed her.

“It’s honest, if you get my meanin’.”

Rough and unpolished he said. Like him, indeed.

“It’s perfect,” Emelia declared ardently, taken up with the wild beauty of it.

Arthur unlatched the door before scooping her up into his arms. Emelia squealed in joyful surprise, swept so suddenly from her feet. As if she weighed nothing at all and Arthur chuckled deep in his throat as he shouldered his way across the threshold.

He set her down lightly before going to pull back the drapes and Emelia allowed her eyes to adjust from the brightness of the outdoors and took it all in. He had been truthful, they had much work to do to get settled here and she felt completely, utterly overwhelmed. She needed to get her things from town. Her clothes and journals and tinctures. She needed to organize and tidy. Tidy… what did she know about keeping a house or being a wife? His wife. Just one more adventure. Easy, compared to practicing medicine and making house calls in downpours. Surely?

“You’re finally here!”

The familiar, high pitched voice snapped Emelia out of her reverie. She turned and found Heidi McCourt in the open doorway of the little home and Emelia did not know what to say.

“Howdy, Miss McCourt,” Arthur said with a tip of his hat.

“Mr. Morgan,” Heidi replied with a supercilious smile.

“Um…hello, Heidi!” Emelia stammered, forcing a cheery smile to her face. Heidi rushed at Emelia, clasping the doctor’s hands and wheeling her around. The sugary red-head noticed, with all the instinct of an eager social-climber, the new ring on Emelia’s finger. Her green eyes widened.

“What. Is. This?” Heidi asked, dragging Emelia by the hand to a window.

 “It’s…” Emelia hesitated, apprehensive as to how Heidi may react. “Well, an engagement ring.”

“I know what it is,” Heidi squealed, staring at the ring and the doctor could not help but regard this cheer with a measure of cautious suspicion. “So? When’s the date?”

Emelia cast a glance to Arthur. He stood stock still, hands clasping his gun belt. A strange little smile gracing his lips. He shrugged.

“Um… well, we have not set one. Yet, I mean…”

“I only just asked,” Arthur supplied. “But I reckon Emma here’ll appreciate yer input on that matter.”

“Oh, will you?” Heidi asked, all haughtiness totally stripped away.

“Well… I had my heart set on something small…”

“St. Denis!” Heidi declared. “We _must_ go to St. Denis for the dress, at very least. We can spend a day or two and see a show and -”

“Well, I hadn’t thought…”

“Heh, I’ll uh, leave you ladies to it,” Arthur said. He crossed the room to press a kiss to Emelia’s forehead. “I’ll catch ya later, darlin’.”

“Must you?” Emelia asked, gripping his hand like a lifeline.

“I would not dare intrude on a meetin’ of the minds,” he drawled with a little smirk. “Besides, I really ought to check on that fool stallion o’ theirs.”

Emelia forced a smile and nodded, holding her tongue. More than a little disappointed that they would need to wait before nesting or savor the freshness of engagement. She soothed herself that Arthur had not declined the offer of staying there together and, as he gallantly tipped his dark hat to Heidi, Emelia resolved to make it reality.

“Okay,” Heidi said once they were alone. She turned her attention back to Emelia with a sincere smile. “I understand now.”

“Understand what?”

“Mr. Morgan,” Heidi clarified. “He’s got as much breeding as a mustang, but he _is_ strapping, and _tolerably_ handsome and…” She rolled her vivid green eyes. “Charming in an ‘aw-shucks’ sort of way.”

Emelia smiled, so persistent and genuine her cheeks hurt. “Oh, he is. All those things,” she said, “and so much more.”

“You really are happy with him?” Heidi asked.

The doctor sighed. “Incandescently,” Emelia said. “He’s gentle and intuitive and utterly unthreatened by my intelligence. And _so_ supportive...” A little laugh bubbled out of her. “I came out here to escape a marriage, and yet here I am, running head long into one!”

“It’s been awfully quick,” Heidi allowed.

“He has defied or exceeded all of my expectations. I never thought I could love anyone even half as much and yet -”

“Alright!” Heidi put her hands up in surrender. “I get it. Well… if you really are happy with that old drifter who am I to argue? I mean, Elizabeth married ‘well’ and her fella keeps falling into different beds.”

Emelia blushed. “I… I’m not privy to the details of Elizabeth and Harold’s marriage.”

“I guess it’s rude to talk about it,” Heidi conceded. She paused and looked around the building. “So. What do you think of this old shed?”

“I love it!”

Heidi crinkled her nose. “Is there anything you don’t love?”

“Oh, I appreciate how crazy it sounds,” Emelia admitted. “Considering my upbringing but this is mine, ours, in a way my mother’s home never was. Does that make any sense?”

Heidi laughed. “I suppose.”

“But I… well.” Emelia looked around the open room, wringing her hands. “I honestly have no idea where to start. I’ve never so much as dusted all my life.” Her eyes settled on the stove. “I’ve never even lit a fire.”

“Well,” Heidi said, linking her arm with Emelia’s. “I guess you’re just going to have to let me help you.”

Heidi, despite all the airs she put on in town, proved to be a rancher’s daughter after all. She rolled up her sleeves and showed Emelia how to start that monstrosity of a black stove, removing the mess of ashes. Showed her how to place the kindling and how to work the dampers and flues. How to tend the fire.

“Cooking,” Heidi warned, “will take some practice.”

Everything would take practice, Emelia knew, thinking now of all the different goods women had offered in exchange for services over the last few months. Preserves and butter and cheeses. Offers of washing or darning and patching. Exchanges of sweat she could now use or keep or share.

Heidi dragged Emelia to the ranch house, to meet her parents under the pretense of borrowing linens and a broom and lye. They invited the young doctor to join them for dinner, and while Emelia balked at so quickly becoming a burden the McCourts would hear none of it.

“You’ve only just arrived,” Mrs. McCourt insisted. “And there’s always more than enough.”

The young women spent the day opening the cabin. Beating rugs, washing windows, sweeping floors, all to the steady flow of chatter. Talking about the sprawling mansions and shops in St. Denis and Heidi teased her in good nature, calling her ‘Doctor Morgan’. Emelia did not think it feasible to change the name on her medical degree, but in the shadow of her disinheritance, she did fancy the notion and smiled along.

Only the bed was made with an awkward silence.

They returned to the main house for dinner to find Mrs. McCourt pulling the beef roast out of the oven. To be accompanied with roasted root vegetables and peach cobbler. Mr. McCourt had dragged Arthur in from the stables and the evening passed with a strange sort of normalcy that Emelia found promising. Despite the truth of Arthur’s violent past, he seemed perfectly at ease in such domesticity, listening as Eric McCourt related the trials and tribulations of early homesteading. Of building the cabin Emelia already considered home, and those first tough years.

Arthur and Emelia later walked to that little cabin arm in arm by the light of the moon. A slight chill to the spring air. Arthur sang a folk song. A dark little ditty set at a strangely upbeat pace. About a young man facing a hanging, and his friends and family coming to watch. She may have blamed his high spirit on liquor had she not known, with certainty that he and Mr. McCourt had only enjoy a single glass of whiskey after dinner.

Arthur’s gravelly voice fractured a little, beneath the weight of his own mirth. She giggled, trying to pick up the tune, but unable to keep up with the quick clipped pace and unfamiliar lyrics. Never had she heard anything like it before.

_“Hangman,_

_“Hangman, slack up your rope, oh slack it for a while._

_“I look down yonder to see Pa comin', he's rode for a many long mile._

_“Oh Pa, say Pa, have you brung any gold, any gold or pay my fee?_

_“Or have you ridden these many long miles_

_“See me on the hangin' tree?_

_“No son, no son, I ain't brought any gold, no gold nor pay your fee._

_“But I just rode these many long miles_

_“See you on the hangin' tree._

_“Hangman,_

_“Hangman, slack up your rope, oh slack it for a while._

_“I look down yonder t’see my true love comin', she's rode fer a many long mile.”_

Arthur paused in his stride on the words ‘true love’. He squeezed her hand and Emelia looked at him. A smile stretched his fine lips.

_“Oh true love, say true love, have you brung any gold, any gold or pay my fee?_

_“Or have you ridden these many long miles_

_“See me on the hangin' tree?”_

Arthur pulled Emelia in close and she giggled.

 _“Yes love, yes love,”_ he crooned close to her ear. “ _I've brung some gold, some gold and paid yer fee._

_“An’ I've just come to take you home so’s we can marry be.”_

Arthur swung her round and dragged out that last word until his voice cracked and then he barked out a hearty laugh and Emelia laughed with him. “Oh, Arthur,” she sighed. “I didn’t save you. You’ve saved yourself.”

“No, love,” Arthur drawled. He kissed her and she savored the now familiar taste of him, all smoky and warm. Then he said, “Reckon I’d still be workin’ my way into a noose if not fer you.”

They entered their home, and Emma went to light the lamp on the table. As the room came to light, she saw Arthur still at the door and remembered that he had not been back since that early afternoon. He let out a low whistle.

“Darlin’, you’re a wonder.”

“Heidi helped,” Emelia admitted, blushing. “I’d have been lost without her.”

It had been more work than she anticipated, truth be told. Emelia held new appreciation for the effort, the long hours put in by the Griswolds’ household staff. How they kept the furnaces stoked and the rooms spotless and so perfect.

But Emelia also felt a sense of accomplishment now that she looked at it with him. The little cabin seemed a little more like home, now that cobwebs had been evicted and the bed made up in clean linens.

“There ain’t nothin’ you can’t do,” he said.

Arthur gave himself to the job of splitting more wood and stoking the stove as Emelia drew the curtains closed. She turned down the bed with fumbling fingers, her heart beating wildly in her chest as her mind raced. What now? Did she strip down to her undergarments and crawl into bed? Did she wait for him? She smelled the bit of smoke that escaped the stove. Listened to the cozy crackling of the wood catching fire and then the squeal of steel hinges as Arthur closed the stove door. The thud of his steps approaching, and Emelia froze. Afraid to turn and look at him, despite her anxious and eager heart.

Why was she so nervous?

A pregnant hush settled over them, neither speaking for what felt like an age. Into this strange, unfamiliar silence, Arthur finally spoke. “I can sleep out on the porch,” he offered, his voice rough and uncertain. He clearly sensed her internal struggle, as he sensed everything.

“The porch?” she said, turning to him. _No, no don’t go_ , she thought. She shook her head. “You’re not a dog!”

“It ain’t much worse than the lean-to I enjoyed back in camp,” Arthur said, so cavalier and motioning towards the door. “I got a roof over my head so I won’t get rained on, an I’m up off the ground…”

“No!”

“Darlin’,” he said, voice thick as smoke. “Emma. I… I can wait. This way… if…?”

“If what?”

“Well,” Arthur began, only to pause. He shrugged in a weak attempt at indifference. “You know…”

Emelia blinked, not knowing. She took in the distressed frown of Arthur’s dark, expressive brows and the worry in his eyes. How he shifted his powerful body, usually so controlled and measured, now skittish as a young horse. For all his age and experience he was as nervous as she. Perhaps even a little afraid. She could only think this had something to do with a life of abuse and a first love who wed someone else. Despite accepting his ring. As she herself had done so easily that very afternoon.

“I won’t abandon you, Arthur,” she said.

He looked at her a long moment. Emelia did not quite know why she said it and just as she began to worry she had offended him, Arthur chuffed a little laugh. He closed the gap between them, coming around that table, in full strides. He gently cradled her head in his rough hands and brought his lips to her brow. Emelia’s eyes fluttered shut, and again she wrapped her fingers around his thick wrists and gripped tight. Felt his steady pulse beneath her fingertips and longed to feel him closer. _Please,_ she prayed. _Please stay._

“I reckon you won’t,” he said. Emelia opened her eyes to find Arthur searching her face. “My brave girl.”

Arthur held Emelia still to tend to her lips, bending to her. Tender at first. A gentle lick, the soft tease of his tongue at the seam of her mouth, beseeching without word and Emelia opened to Arthur with a sigh and the hotness of his mouth. Arthur’s fingers treaded in her hair, pulling her tresses from the neat chignon before drawing the lines of her throat and that strange pleasant warmth began to pool in her belly. That same sensation, both strange and natural, that began to stir in the meadow and the night he promised her a home.

“I want you,” Emelia sighed on a breath. Slowly, as if trying to approach a deer, she moved her hands down Arthur’s chest. Popped open the buttons of his vest one by one and he did not stop her. Arthur, in turn, clumsily pulled off his boots before working at her clothes. “Do you want me?”

Arthur swallowed and could only manage an unequivocal nod before drawing her in close and laying his lips to her pulse point, open mouthed and starving, and she felt that heat sink lower. Blindly she untucked his shirt, inching the fabric from his pants. So dizzy with desire her fingers fumbled on every button and fastening. Her corset snapped free.

Emelia pushed the fabric from his broad shoulders, peeling Arthur out of his shirt. She had seen and touched naked men before. Cold and lifeless on a lab table. Not this combination of tan-lines and muscle and robust heat. A physique built from hard work and worn trim with honest hunger. Coarse burnished hair, the same shade as the scruff on his chin, dusted his pale skin. Accenting the sculpting of his chest, flowing into a treasure trail that ran down the center of his lean stomach and lower still. She skinned Arthur out of his dark work pants and then her tummy tumbled. Emelia did not know how to touch Arthur, illogically afraid of being wrong or somehow improper.

She startled at the feeling of cool air against her backside. Her undergarments pooled at her feet and Arthur pulled back.

“Jesus,” he whispered, wide-eyed and blinking.

Reverently, Arthur settled his large hands upon her hips and Emelia sighed when he pulled her close and enveloped her in his arms. Attuned to her, Arthur handled her with an ardent and raw sort of love that she could feel right to the end of his deceptively gentle touch. Like she had been made for him, she arched into his rough palms and kissed the plush of his mouth, echoing his own fervor, so eager to reciprocate that she finally allowed her hands to travel across the hard curves of his body. He shivered and sighed beneath her careful touch and Emelia grew bolder. Her fingers trailed further down his core in a sightless instinctive caress until she found him, hard and hot, and when Arthur groaned beneath her rudimentary efforts Emelia felt a thrill. He backed her to the bed, drinking of her lips with a desperate thirst, pressed skin to skin and still Emelia only wanted Arthur closer. Under her skin.

When she felt the bed at the back of her legs, Emelia leaned back, couching herself upon the mattress. Arthur gazed at her. She could see his chest rising and falling, muted and transfixed, and would have felt foolish if not for the awed expression etched on his handsome face.

“Come here,” Emelia beckoned, trying to quell the tremulous feeling of exposure, and Arthur followed. Crawling onto the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight. Over her. Settling between her thighs, his body coarse and hot and heavy. Emelia shifted beneath him, putting her arms around him and she felt Arthur rigid as a rifle barrel against the inside of her thigh and again her stomach flipped nervously. Emelia understood the crude mechanics of what they were about to do and met his true, blue eyes.

“You sure?” Arthur asked.

Emelia trusted him, but she did not trust her voice. She swallowed nervously and nodded. Arthur watched her face. He reached down between their bodies and guided himself in and as he pushed, all slow, gentle though firm his lids slid closed and he sighed. Emelia’s breath hitched at the sudden inexorable discomfort, all tight stinging sensation. She could not help but whimper and Arthur stilled.

“I know,” he soothed, kissing Emelia with relaxed tenderness though the muscles beneath her palms trembled with fragile patience. She did not know what Arthur waited for and with every rasping breath, every quiver of muscle, Emelia felt him holstered inside her. After several minutes of this luxuriating embrace, whether from the constant pressure of him or his shivers of movement or the thoughtful kissing, Emelia felt a whisper of pleasure. She moved her hips, driven by some primordial instinct, tested the slide and feel of him inside her and marveled at how Arthur shuddered and moaned and how her boldness spurred him into splendid motion. He rolled his hips, pushing deep and grinding at a heedful, steady pace. Emelia curved against him, lifting her hips to receive him and Arthur sank deeper with a contented groan.

They eventually found a sweet rhythm, savoring the warm, silken sliding of their coupling. Fused together, kissing between panting breaths. His fingers, tangled in her hair, softly tugging in time to their motion. Arthur’s steady prodding began to feel so, so good, setting a strange heaviness to build, coiling at the base of her spine, spreading all tingling warmth, driving Emelia’s panting to uninhibited mewling.

When she moaned his name, Arthur lost his stride. His pace increased, urgent, insistent, until he punctuated each thrust with his own desperate grunting. He staggered to an abrupt halt with a cry and all the built-up tension seemed to flow out of him then, melting into her, like butter on warm toast. Arthur rolled to her side, pulling Emelia atop him and then he let out a great shaking sigh.

Emelia lay there, hot and sweating, her cheek pressed to his heaving chest, listening to the soothing tempo of his heart. Trying to catch her breath and slow her own and feeling dazed that it was over. Emelia had not known what to expect. That lovemaking would be so passionate and messy in such equal measure. Emelia could not ignore the sticky pleasant ache between her thighs, or the scent of his musk, or having the man she loved so gloriously close.

“I’m sorry, Emma,” Arthur murmured between breaths though she had no idea what he apologized for. A hand in her sweaty hair, at the back of her head, stroking. The trailing of fingers along the curve of her spine. Peaceful. Loving. After a moment he added, “It’s, uh… been awhile.”

Emelia considered the lingering sadness that followed him like cloying incense. How he bristled or made light rather than share how he felt. Could it all really link back to this Mary Gillis? She wondered and hoped that he would continue to open to her, slow though it had been. Emelia propped herself up on Arthur’s broad chest, safe in the circle of his arms and peered down at him. A soft, fragile smile graced his lips. She swept Arthur’s hair back from his forehead, carding her fingers through the thick, damp strands. He basked in the affection, his eyes slipping closed, dark lashes tipped with moisture.

“Oh, Arthur,” Emelia said, smiling tenderly.

He opened his eyes. “Never thought I’d get a chance like this.”

She faltered a moment, smiling. Still pushing her fingers through his dark honey-brown hair. “You just needed a chance to be yourself.”

Arthur blushed, and Emelia wondered how his confidence could be so brittle when with horses or a gun he could not be shaken. He cleared his throat and for once Arthur did not tell her she needed to know more men. Emelia observed the small victory in silence.

“I love you,” he said instead. In that warm, gravely twang. Emelia kissed Arthur slow and decided, happily, that lovemaking would be instrumental in his convalescence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song is based off 'Maid Freed from the Gallows', an old folk tune. The American version usually had a young man on the scaffold as the USA wasn’t too keen on hanging ladies. It was also the inspiration for a Led Zeppelin song.


	26. I'll Crawl Home to Her

Lark buntings trilled just outside the window above the bed. The curtains distorted and diffused the dawn, casting the light in a muted maroon tint. Arthur’s nose was buried in silken caramel tresses, cocooned in cotton, flannel warmth. He breathed deep the clean lemony scent of bergamot and the sweetness of rosewater and something else too. Something earthy and feminine that stirred his pulse. Arthur released a sigh he did not know he held and tightened his arms around Emelia. Emelia… nestled with him, like a dove in a cote. All mild and trusting.

How on God’s green earth had he managed this?

Arthur had given himself a proper start with Mary. Given her a ring and a promise and for a few weeks, at least, it seemed that they would convince her daddy to let it be. She buckled under pressure, in the end. Whether from her daddy or her own ideals it did not rightly matter no more. Eliza wound up in his path, offering him pity and brief comfort. Too late he learned that consolation could not be found in the bed of a woman he did not love and got her in trouble besides. She accepted money but not himself, preferring to go it alone with a baby than wed a filthy outlaw.

But not Emelia.

Even after robbing her and killing three men before her eyes, she chose him. She said yes before he even showed her the ring. Why? Why did this beautiful, intelligent little thing take a chance on him?

They would need to wake soon. He for work with the horses and she to head into Blackwater for everything from arranging affairs to tending patients. Much too soon. Cool spring air, damp with dew, seeped in during the night and Arthur wanted Emelia to remain comfortable and content. Careful not to wake her, he untangled himself and slipped from beneath the quilt. He went quietly to the stove and stoked the flames. Opened the damper and loaded the box to get the chill out of the room. Arthur flinched when the door to the firebox squealed in its tattletale way. Why did it seem so much louder in the closing? He turned and found Emelia staring at him. Blushing and doe-eyed and chewing her lower lip, her eyes firmly fixed on his own.

“Didn’t mean to wake you yet,” he murmured, sheepish. Emelia only smiled and drew back the blanket in a shy, soundless invitation.

“When do you need to go,” she asked as he slid back under cover. Already Emelia reached for him, laying a hand to his waist, drawing him very near.

“Not fer awhile yet,” he said, taking her into his arms. Arthur threaded his fingers in her tousled hair and brought his lips to hers, her mouth soft and supple and he felt all at once the stirring of wild need. This had been a long time coming. A lifetime of lonely nights and cold beds and Arthur was so done with it. He held Emelia fast for another, more carnal, kiss. Emelia. So smooth beneath his dangerous hands, quivering and eager. He dragged his lips across her skin and kneaded the soft small swell of her breast with just enough pressure to have her arching beautifully into his palm with a tiny gasp.

“I love you, Arthur.”

“An’ I love you, sweet girl,” he replied, a little amazed at how often she declared it. He plucked at a nipple with his lips, felt it harden beneath his tongue and Emelia cooed, wordless and content. Oh, what sounds she made… “My girl,” he sighed in a fog, lips against her skin.

Her fingers twisted in his hair and she urged him, wordlessly, to return his attention to her lips. As they kissed, Emelia drew her fingers across his skin, feather-light and he shuddered beneath her enjoyable touch.

“I want to chart your body,” she said with clinical interest, retracing the same path, along the side of his chest, just under his right arm. Arthur shivered again with a little grunt and Emelia grinned. “Every nerve and dip and scar.”

“Why on earth would you want that?”

“To understand you,” Emelia replied, sliding a hand across the muscles of Arthur’s back. To his waist, his hip, the firm curve of his backside. She moistened her lips with a little dab of her tongue and smiled. “You’re so perfect.”

 “Naw,” he deflected with an embarrassed little huff of breath. The heat rose up in his cheeks and Arthur ducked his head to the hollow of her lovely neck to hide.

“Well, I think you are,” Emelia insisted, still stroking. So sweet and sincere. “Oh, I love you so, Arthur, and… I do very much wish to, um…” she paused a moment and Arthur lifted his head to look at her. Her cheeks grew rosier. “Well… to _please_ you.”

Arthur blinked. He would slave the rest of his life to be worthy of such blind adoration. Emelia had worked him into a crisis of pleasure the night before, to his great shame. With little more than the warmth of her body and his name tumbling from her sweet lips. Those pretty lips now swollen from the hunger of his kiss and a day and a night worth of scruff.

“Tell me how you like it, Emma,” he said. “I wanna make you feel good somethin’ fierce.”

Emelia’s dark eyes seemed to grow darker, her pupils blown wide with wanting. She took his hand in hers and without a single word, guided Arthur to touch her most intimate place, and discovered her petals already slick with desire. He surveyed her face in the weak grey light as he caressed her, watched as Emelia’s guileless brown eyes seemed to soften. She licked her lips and swallowed. “Would you believe… I think about you,” she asked. Emelia paused, often, to guide his palm, savoring his touch with little appreciative sighs. “Since that day in the meadow… when you gave me those bluebonnets?”

No. No, Arthur could not, did not dare, believe it. Nor could he find his voice.

“I would lay in bed,” Emelia confessed. Her voice so soft and high, curling under pleasure. “I would lay there and dream of you…of the things you said. The sound of your voice. Of who you are, and…oh… all you’ve done for me and I could not help myself…”

Then she pushed two of his fingers inside her, so hot and soft, and he gasped. Overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of what he felt and the threatening memory of having lost or broken something close to it before. He weren’t no poet. Arthur did not possess the great bard’s gift for pretty turns of phrase or metaphor. Nor could he spin yarn like good ol’ Dutch. He’d try to set it down on paper, later, but Arthur preferred the truth in action. In the proposal and the going straight.

And in this. He had gone so long without ever even knowing this.

So he tended Emelia. Reverent and so careful. Listened to her and watched her between kisses, trying to caress her as she wanted to be caressed. Stroking slow and pressing firm, and with a curl of his fingers Arthur felt something rough and Emelia arched and moaned, and her beautiful eyes slipped closed.

“Oh…” she sighed warmly, biting her lower lip. “Oh my…”

“Yeah…,” Arthur purred, bringing his lips back to her throat. Yes. Yes. Yes. He eagerly wished to satisfy her. He pressed again, and Emelia moaned. “That’s what I wanna hear, baby girl.”

Emelia said she wanted to chart his old, battered body for love. Arthur would do the same for her. Dedicate the same effort to learning the steps of this dance as he had with riding or drawing or all the ugly business of the gang. He continued with this gentle priming, savoring the song of her pleasure, all breathy whispers and moans. Continued, despite his own aching desire, until Emelia clawed at his hip with a frustrated little whimper, wordlessly begging. Arthur shifted, laying atop her, in the valley of those lovely thighs and eased into the hot silken slickness of her. He watched her lips part and curled in to kiss them, breaking apart only to moan with the rolling of his hips. Oh… the promise of sweet relief…Easy… not too fast… Short, shallow strokes, scrapping that same sweet spot he had found with the tip of his cock. Rewarded with Emelia’s exquisite little cries, spurring him to a tender and sensual stride. Jesus, she did not make it easy, rising to meet him, increasing the friction, hugging and pulling at the height of each purposeful warming nudge. They were not kissing anymore; the pleasure too intense to linger quietly. Sharing breath now, panting and moaning in turn, Arthur stared into Emelia’s warm, brown eyes, lost in the sensations of this intense, physical loving. Emelia’s voice trembled to a higher, more desperate note, sounding almost pained and he understood. Felt the same urgent, mounting tension within, in the young body beneath him, around him. The sudden ecstasy, all clenching and flooding of heat and the keening sounds Emelia made, digging her nails in his skin. Oh, he had her. He had her…

Arthur let go, submitting to his own pleasure. “Christ…” he gasped. Emelia did not let him withdraw. Her calves hooked over the backs of his thighs and her hands splayed desperately along the arc of his lower back, she hugged Arthur tight as he spent himself inside her. He was not one for sentimental nonsense, but he would swear the earth moved. Breathless and blissfully satiated, tangled, and linked and kissing until their sweat cooled and Arthur softened inside her. Everything warm and quiet and so, so peaceful.

“I… I can’t put into words how that felt…” she said on a sigh, pulling her fingers through his hair. Her soft voice doped and sublime.

Arthur could not help the chuckle that escaped him. “Oh, I know,” he said, redeemed and content and finding it difficult to feel inadequate in her arms.

“I love you,” she murmured, smiling up at him. Arthur stroked her hair and drew a thumb across her petal-soft freckled cheek. He swallowed; his throat too tight with emotion for proper words to come out. Feeling utterly unstitched, he could only smile and nod.

There was no way round it anymore. Though the gang would pillory him for leaving, he could not do as John did, run away without so much as a thank-you. But leave he would.

They cleaned up, with cool water from the basin and a clean cloth. Got dressed. After a simple breakfast of coffee and dried bread they walked, hands clasped, to the stables. By this time, the sunlight peeked over the horizon, spilling gold across the grass and stable walls, greeted by the swelling chirps and quorks of birds.

Arthur helped get Belladonna ready and he wished he could go with Emelia. He missed the freedom, being able to simply do as he pleased, master of his own time. Gallivanting the wilds with Boadicea, going where the wind and happenstance took them.

Until the gang needed someone shot or battered, he reminded himself. You weren’t so free as you thought. Why did the dream require so much robbing and killing? What would be enough money?

Emelia did not need his aid getting into her saddle anymore, but he liked helping her all the same. To help smooth her skirts and kiss her hand, the ring still displayed. Emelia blushed, smiling down at him.

“Be good,” she said.

“I shall certainly try,” he replied.

Arthur watched them go. Watched the sensual sway of his woman in the saddle before heading into the main barn. Lined on either side with stalls, twelve in all. Samson, the handsome quarter horse stallion, sullenly endured his confinement.

“Feelin’ silly now, ain’t ya?” Arthur asked him. Samson whickered and shuffled to the stall door, ears pricked to attention. “Oh, I know you can smell her, boy,” Arthur continued, entering the stall. He rubbed the sorrel horse down, talking in soothing, hushed tones. “A pretty new mare and you all shut up like an invalid.”

Samson snorted and Arthur chuckled. He worked gently, unwinding the bandages and wiping the residual poultice from that injured left leg, pleased that the inflammation had gone down plenty.

“That’s a good sign, boy,” he said. Arthur gave the big fella a final good scratching along his neck. “Might be able to get you exercisin’ tomorrow.”

Sam tossed his head with a stomp.

It sure was something. To put in an honest day’s work with folk doing the same and to hear them talk so plainly. The ranch hands did not need to pause and consider if their name was safe to give or if someone might recognize them from some grand foolishness two states over. There was a strange freedom in the honesty. That Arthur enjoyed the work, with horses, did not hurt. It seemed odd to be getting paid for something he liked, something that weren’t shameful. And there was something to, in the knowing that at the end of the day he’d have the privilege of going home. Home. To his sweet woman.

Arthur was surprised all the same to find her there. He saw Belladonna turned out in the small pasture near the cabin with Boadicea. The two thick as thieves, cavorting in the last light of day. He pushed the door open and found the air warm with the smell of wood and something savory. Emelia sat at the table, working in her journals by lamp and candlelight and he could not help but smile.

“Emma, darlin’?”

She looked up and smiled at him, rising from her seat.

“Welcome home,” she sang, all bright and winsome. Arthur removed his hat as she came to him, her hands reaching for his face and pulling him down for a kiss. He saw she had moved in proper. Her trunk sat near the foot of the bed. Mason jars of poppy tincture, still suffusing and not quite ready, lined the top shelf of their little kitchen space. On the table sat a glass jar loaded with dried Bluebonnets.

Those Bluebonnets. Kept and cherished despite all his foolishness.

“What do you think?” she asked, gesturing to the entirety of the space behind her.

“Looks like a proper home,” Arthur replied. He would need to fetch his own possessions from camp, sooner than later. Emelia blushed, pushing a stubborn lock back in place and he saw the bright turquoise still on her finger, glowing against her skin.

“You wear that all day?” he asked, nodding to the ring.

“Of course!” Emelia looked at him curiously. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Arthur looked down at the hat in his hands and rolled his shoulder. He did not want to own that he half expected her to bolt, but there it was, nagging all the same. She laid her hand against his cheek.

“I’ll wear it every day until the day I die.”

Arthur lifted his gaze at that. Emelia only smiled brighter, her eyes shining, so cheerful and compassionate. Oh, this girl…

“So,” Emelia began, swaying in a sweet, feminine way. She did not dwell nor allow him to wallow on such stubborn silliness. “Are you hungry, Arthur?”

“Sure,” he said.

“Good,” Emelia replied. “Go on,” she added, nudging him to the table before hastening over to the kitchen space. Arthur noticed the pot on the stove. “I… well… have something here for you to… um, test?”

He chuckled, seating himself at the table. “You don’t sound too certain.”

“Well…” Emelia paused to stretch, rising on her toes, reaching daintily for a bowl. “I’ve never in my life cooked anything.”

Arthur swallowed any concern, mindful of her lack of confidence. It could be no worse than Pearson’s spartan cooking. She lifted the lid and the smell, at least, held some promise. She scooped something into the bowl, and when she brought it over he found stew. Classic beef, potatoes, carrots, onions.

Arthur shrugged and shoveled a spoonful into his mouth. Hot enough to burn and he nearly choked. “You… you made this?” he managed.

Emelia flinched. “Is it inedible?”

“No, not at all. It’s… well, it’s pretty good actually.” Truly it did taste good. The gravy was thick and peppery, and the meat fell apart in his mouth. “Darlin’, I…” He paused, trying to wrangle his feelings. “It’s better than I’m used to, that’s fer sure.”

Better than he deserved.

“Really?” she asked, clasping her hands together and bouncing. So very pleased with her effort. With his mouth full, Arthur could only offer a firm and polite nod.

“I had help,” she confessed, blushing. “Mrs. McCourt supposed, correctly, that I am a disaster in the kitchen. She gave me a tour of the kitchen yesterday… I… I don’t know if I’d have ever sorted the cellar without her list. All these… things I never before needed to consider. A different breed of knowledge really. But knowledge all the same.”

Emelia related all her ignorance and industry while they ate. Born to luxury, perhaps, but with the heart of pioneer. Going boldly into one adventure after another.

“And then today, when I got back, she came over and asked me what we planned for dinner and… well, I had no idea!” Emelia said, laughing at her own naivety. “It hadn’t occurred to me that we can’t just wander over to a restaurant. I mean… I _knew_ we couldn’t but I just hadn’t thought…”

“So she offered to show you,” Arthur guessed, and a small part of him remained a little wary of the McCourts’ kindness. Such generosity was a rare thing.

“She sure did,” Emelia replied. “Taught me how to coat and brown the beef and the science of dicing everything...”

“The science of dicing, huh?”

“Mm hmm,” Emelia hummed. How easily she played along with his humor, resilient and unphased. “I had to write every step down,” she added, as if confessing some sin. “But I can certainly read and measure and follow directions.”

“That you can,” Arthur said sincerely and finished his second helping. “With everything else you had to do today and still you managed this.”

“Well… I got home first,” she said with a humble little shrug.

“You’re a good woman,” Arthur declared. “I… I really shoulda helped you more with all this, sweetheart.”

“You’re going clean and working all day,” she pointed out.

“You work too,” Arthur replied, clearing the table.

“But I don’t come home dusty and exhausted.”

“You’re never tired after them house calls?”

She blushed. “Some days are challenging,” Emelia conceded. “But there are also days when little happens.”

“Well… I think your work is incredible, Emma,” Arthur said, waving at the satchel hung by the door. “And there’s times folk’ll come knocking on that door, needin’ you at all hours, and Lord only knows to what crazy parts of this godforsaken territory…”

“And you’d let me ride off alone? To those ‘crazy parts’?”

“Of course not,” Arthur said, bristling at the thought.

“My brave escort,” she cooed, batting her lashes. Then, she grew serious. Emelia came to him, next to the sink and took up his hands. “Don’t you see, Arthur?” she asked. “This only works if we take care of one another. So what if I tidy up or make a meal for us while I wait for a call? I _love_ you. I _want_ to take care of you.”

Arthur kissed her then. He could compare her to a sunny Sunday morning, all grace and warmth and constancy and Arthur wondered what he had done in his no-good life to deserve a lady so fine.

He went out after that, to feed the horses and returned after the sun had set, with an armload of firewood. Arthur found Emelia brushing her hair at the small vanity. In a white nightgown, finer than anything Molly owned. Her dark hair unbound and gleaming in the lamplight and she smiled at him in the mirror. Arthur felt the tightness in his throat and could not help but watch her a moment. He set the wood down near the stove and cleaned himself up. Shed the dirty work shirt and washed away the day’s grime from his arms and face and neck in the little wash basin.

Emelia had settled on the bed with a book, positioning herself against the headboard, so that the lamp light could readily fall across the pages.

“Watchugot there,” he asked, drawing near.

“Come,” Emelia beckoned, in her unique sweet way. She patted her lap. “Lay down.”

Arthur sat on the bed and pulled off his boots before laying back as instructed. He settled his head in her lap.

“Comfortable?” Emelia asked, carding her fingers through his hair and Arthur could not stop from closing his eyes.

“Mm hm.”

He heard the ruffle of pages as Emelia opened the book, and then brought her fingers back to his scalp. “ _Chapter One;_ ” she read. “ _Treats of the place where Oliver Twist was born and of the circumstances attending his birth._ ”

Dutch had read to him and John, both, his favorite most thought-provoking passages. Flowery and vacuous Evelyn Miller. That Emerson fella… he was alright. Some truth to his words, as far as Arthur saw it, even if too rich and fatty. To pass into a delicate realm of sunset and moonlight…

“ _Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or small: to wit, a workhouse…_ ”

This Dickens fella had a similar affliction. Taking a foot when an inch would do. Christ, did he get paid by the word? But Emma was a fine reader, her voice pleasant as birdsong, and with her delicate fingers stroking his skin Arthur could not muster a protest.

_“And in this workhouse was born; on a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this chapter.”_

“Careful, darlin’,” Arthur warned. “Yer fixin’ to lull me to sleep with all this here pamperin’.”

Emelia gazed down at him. “Is it so terrible, Arthur?” she asked with an amused little smile, still petting him. “Finally getting ‘pampered’?”

“No.”

“Good,” she replied, and that lovely smile only brightened. “Now _shush_.”

Arthur grinned. “Okay.”

His mother could not read to him. Arthur would have learned to read at a younger age had it been the case and he wished she had. He listened. To the silver tones of Emelia’s voice, so soft and high and clear, and hoped she would read, anything and everything, to their children. Children… When God saw fit to grant him a second chance at such a thing. He could not help but wonder. How might it feel to watch the woman he loved grow heavy with his child.

Arthur let her get through the first chapters and his interest did warm to the woeful tale of an English urchin. But when Emelia started into the third, he took her hand to his mouth. Pressing warm open-mouthed caresses to the delicate skin of her inner-wrist. Emelia’s voice faltered. Their eyes met.

“Can we continue tomorrow night,” Arthur asked quietly.

A demure smile played across her lips. Emelia closed the book and Arthur took it from her. Set it on the little nightstand next to their bed as she scooted down lower. Coming, so willingly, into his arms. Arthur kissed her deep, drawing his hand against the smooth flesh of her thigh. He pushed the nightgown up to her hips.


	27. That Goodness is Gone with You Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monday, May 8th.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Made a few continuity changes to previous chapters. Because I'm a dork.
> 
> Sorry this took so long... It was a doozy.

“Abigail!?”

Abigail looked to that rough, familiar voice and saw John, slender as a knife, emerging from the smoke of the campfires. Jack trailing hesitantly behind on his little legs, eyes downcast.  She set the filthy button-up back into the cool, sudsy water. Looked down at her raw hands, cracked and scarred from the lye, and sighed.

“Yes John?”

“Can’t yer boy find someone else to pester?” he demanded callously. Jack looked away, stricken. Abigail shot up to her feet. Sometimes, when John got like this, and it were too often, Abigail wondered if sticks and stones would hurt less than blunt rejection.

“Our boy,” Abigail corrected. John’s eyes were bleary and his breath reeked sour like a brewhouse. In a lower, more desperate breath she said, pleadingly, “he’s your son, John!”

John looked at the ground, hands on his narrow hips, lips turned down in a scowl. “Yeah well… I ain’t got time fer this. You know we got things goin’ on.”

Damn Dutch and Micah and their damn ferry. “He just wanted to see you is all,” Abigail tried.

“At this hour?” John demanded. “Sun’s barely up!”

Abigail bristled. The nerve of this man! If he hadn’t stayed up so goddamn late… “It’s spring, John. Itsa risin’ a little earlier each day, and Jack goes with it.”

“How’s that my problem?”

“You know, that tent of yours,” she began, a little softer, stepping towards him. She drew her hand along his arm but John was already shaking his head. “Them nice dark walls would have blocked out the sun and Jack would have slept longer.”

“I told you,” he hissed. “I ain’t ready fer… all of that. Hell… we ain’t even sure he’s mine.”

Abigail sucked in a breath and struck him. Clean across his narrow face, his head turning with the blow. “Yer a no-good fool, John Marston!”

“Aww, to hell with this,” he shouted. He stalked away from her, fists clenched, and shoulders hunched.

“Yeah, well, who needs ya!” Abigail hurled at his back. We don’t choose who we love or when we die but why, Lord? Why? Why did she have to fall in love with this man? No-good, no-account, filthy…

A whimper interrupted her internal tirade. Abigail looked down. Saw Jack, staring at her, eyes-wide and not missing a beat. She unclenched her fists and let out a long heavy sigh. How long would her past continue to cast a shadow over her poor, innocent little boy?

“I’m sorry,” she said. Abigail kneeled before her young son. His soft little chin trembled, and Abigail loathed herself a little more. She pulled him into a fierce hug. “No point wastin’ tears on people who ain’t worth it.”

Jack nodded, sniffling.

“I love you,” Abigail said, stroking his hair. “You know that, right?”

“Yes, mama,” he said in a small voice.

“Alright then,” she said, holding him at arm’s length to fix him with a proper look. “How ‘bout you see if you can’t catch anymore of them crayfish for Pearson? Yer best at it.”

“I’ll try, mama.”

Abigail smiled and sent him on his way, watching him go before heading to the chuckwagon. A good strong cup of coffee might set her right. She curled her hand around that metal cup and felt the warmth of it. What a fine luxury it was, to have the freedom to pause in her chores to enjoy… something to take her mind off John.

“John loves you,” Dutch said as he poured himself a cup. “We all see that. But maybe… Well, maybe he wasn’t ready for the responsibility.”

Abigail could not find a smile. “Saw all that, did you,” she asked bitterly. Truly it was shameful, carrying on like they did for all to see. Why did John come back for this?  

“Just count yourself lucky you an’ Jack have all of us.”

“Sure, Dutch. I… I appreciate it. I do. Really. But…” Her history with them cast a long shadow over Jack. The girls were willing to help – bound together in a maternal understanding. But the men? Dutch said some pretty things, sure. But the rest? They teased John, she knew. It was they who sowed the seed of doubt. And John, fool that he was, tended to it and Jack reaped the poisonous crop.

“Go on,” Dutch said magnanimously.

“Well… A boy _needs_ a man in his life.”

“And he’s got a whole camp of ‘em.”

“A _good_ man,” she clarified. “To teach ‘im things I can’t teach him.”

“Hosea’s teachin’ him to read and write. Same as we did for John. And Arthur.”

“An’ I appreciate every minute of it,” Abigail said, quickly. “But there’s things. Things a daddy should do… ain’t there? Like… well, like fishin’ an’ huntin’ an’ ridin’,” she elucidated. “An’ how to take care of himself and folk that matter to ‘im. John… John ain’t setting a very good example.”

Dutch fell silent. He rolled the rings on his fingers with his thumb and took a long slow sip of his coffee.

“You are right, Abigail,” Dutch conceded. He nodded as he spoke and Abigail nodded along with him.  “A man must be able to survive if he is truly to be free. I would love to take him underwing, personally. You know that. But we can’t be selfish.”

Abigail nodded. “Oh, I’d never dream of askin’ ya, Dutch.”

“You understand. I got this whole camp to look out for.”

“Of course.” 

 “And he don’t seem comfortable with any of the new boys.”

No. Jack had not yet warmed to Charles. And the rest were… different. Her boy shrank from the raucous Callander Boys and Javier and Bill. And Micah. No. Jack did not like Micah nor did Abigail trust the likes of him.

“He sure seemed to like Arthur though.”

Arthur. Of course Jack liked Arthur.

“It made sense, really,” Dutch continued. “How he stepped up for John. He an’ John were like brothers.”

“Yeah…,” she trailed off a moment. It had been Arthur who rode for help the night Jack was born. Arthur who, even before John left, took that screaming infant and walked him to sleep. During a bout of colic so terrible Abigail feared she might drown him just to get an hour of sleep. Oh, Arthur grumbled like the cantankerous bachelor he was whenever she asked for anything, but he never, _never_ let Jack catch on. No. Not little Jack. More than just the cast-off son of a whore. The gruff enforcer was soft with Jack. Calm and patient and so very _safe_.

“I don’t know what I’d a done without him.”

“Yea, sure made sense,” Dutch said with a nod. “Him taken care of you like he did. Damn shame. I don’t think Arthur really understands just how much he’s gonna be missed around here.”

Abigail stared at Dutch.

“You… you think he’s leavin’?” she stammered. A long silence suddenly permeated. Dutch smiled sadly, and she could not help but understand his meaning. She lowered herself gently to one of the stumps, lest her knees buckle beneath her weight. “He… he can’t leave. What… what about us? The gang? This gang is everythin’ to him!”

Dutch shook his head. “The way Hosea tells it, he’s thinkin’ of hangin’ up his guns. Slaving away for some rich man, if you can believe it.”

No. Not Arthur. “Why?”

“A pretty face does strange things to a lonely man,” Dutch decided. “And this here is the worst sort. Probably won’t let him near her if he don’t play along. Damn shame.”

Abigail stared into her coffee cup, feeling guilty. Had she not told Arthur, weeks ago, that there would be no harm in chasing his fine lady doctor? Why hadn’t she kept her damn mouth shut?

“Maybe we haven’t been clear enough,” Dutch said thoughtfully, regaining her attention. “Maybe it’s time we reminded Arthur just how much he means to this family. How would you like to get outta camp for a little while? Go an’ pay my wayward son a visit?”

“Me?”

“I can’t think of no one finer.”

“Uh… sure, Dutch. But, Jack. I can’t just…”

“Sure you can,” he declared. “Tilly and Mary-Beth’ll be more than happy to keep an eye on the boy.”

Who could deny him when he spoke so grandly? “I… I suppose it can’t hurt.”

“Not at all,” Dutch said.

“But… I don’t even know where he’s gotten off to and how will I even get there?” Abigail asked.

Dutch smirked. “Oh, we’ve been keepin’ an eye on him,” he shared. “I’ll get Javier to give you a ride.”

And so it was that Abigail found herself standing outside a cabin later that afternoon. On property she had no business on. A proper, functioning homestead.

“Can I help you,” a farmhand asked. A thin fella in greasy blue jeans and sweat stained work-shirt the color of mud bricks. She could not see his eyes beneath his slouchy cavalry style hat, but she felt his apprehension in the stiffness of his posture. The way he braced against the fence.

“She’s here for the Doc,” Javier answered.

The farmhand spit. “She just went out,” he said. “You’ll be waitin’ awhile.”

“Oh, we don’t mind,” Abigail supplied.

“Just wait on the porch. Over there.”

Javier urged his horse where directed. Abigail slid off Boaz’s back. Two wooden chairs sat on the porch, framed by flower boxes. Soft green shoots poked out of the rich, black soil. Abigail climbed the steps and saw that Javier was still on his painted horse.

“You comin’?”

He shook his head. “Naw, you can handle this.”

 “Handle what, exactly? Where you goin’?

“Got things to take care of,” Javier said with a shrug.

“How am I supposed to get back?”

“You’re here for Arthur, remember?” he said. “He’ll give you ride.”

Abigail did not feel as certain. “Alright, I guess.”

Javier tipped his little bowler to her. “I’ll see you both back at camp,” he said. He spurred his horse and was off.

Abigail climbed the steps to the porch and knocked. No one answered. She tested the iron latch on the door and found that it lifted, and she pushed it in on its hinges. She peered into the relative darkness. As her eyes adjusted, Abigail saw the little kitchen tucked in the left corner and the stocked shelves and the table in the center, a few books scattered across its surface around a tall jar of dried flowers. A pile of fresh laundry wrapped in paper occupied a chair. The thread of the men’s shirts seemed new. A wide bed huddled in the far right corner, tucked beneath a window with the brown leather book resting on the nightstand next to it.

Arthur’s journal.

Abigail wondered, not for the first time, what he put down on those pages. She looked back out the door and saw no sign of anyone and so she ventured further in. She picked it up. Drew her hand across the smooth brown hide and opened to the first page.

She could not read, though Abigail wondered if the words would sound as pretty as they looked. All curlicue like the fancy baroque embroidery on Molly’s fine dresses. Abigail would not have guessed this to look at Arthur, and she’d have wondered the journal stolen if not for the sketches. Sketches and drawings of Blackwater and folk toiling and horses and then, a girl. The girl and flowers. So many flowers. Some rendered with delicate and painstaking care. Others in a flurry of graphite, messy and half-formed. And that girl, again. Hair unbound and lashes brushing her cheeks. Committed to this page with all the care in the world.

Something lurched in Abigail’s chest. How long had this girl laid asleep, so safe in the shelter of this cabin, under this man’s protection? What would such a quiet moment be like? Abigail could not imagine it because she did not know it. It settled on her, like smoke. An envy so thick and heavy she could scarcely breathe.

Abigail snapped the taunting journal shut and dropped it back on the nightstand before snatching a fistful of bedding. She yanked it back, lifting a distinct, musky scent into the air. Revealing the white cotton sheets and the faint tell-tale staining, and supposed she understood how this damn girl held Arthur here.

She sat on that porch, stewing in hurt. Damn girl. Stealing the most solid thing in her young son’s life. Thieving little whore. Could she not find some high society fella? How were poor girls supposed to get ahead with all the hardworking men getting snapped up? Dutch told it true, about the rich. Take. Take. Take. Sucking the very best out of life like the parasites they were…

Then Abigail saw him. Walking over from the main house. Recognized the dark hat and the unique relaxed stride. The broadness and height of him. She noticed that he did not carry his satchel. His gun belt conspicuously absent. Abigail rose from her seat and leaned against the railing.

“Arthur!” she called.

He checked his step. “Abigail?”

She stood at the top of the steps and crossed her arms over her chest. “Mmhmm. Was starting to fear you might forget me.”

“Of course not.” Arthur chuffed. He closed the gap. “Everythin’ alright,” he asked. His brow furrowed with concern. “With you an’ Jack?”

Of course he would ask that, before anything else. A poignant reminder of what was at stake. “We’re fine,” she said. “I came to see how you were doin’.”

A hesitant smile played at his lips. “I’m doin’ well,” he said with a modest nod.

Even coated in dust and smelling of sweet hay and horses, his collar soaked with sweat, Arthur looked _well_. A little more meat on his bones. Bright eyed and only a day’s worth of stubble, not a bruise marring his face or knuckles. So relaxed and at ease in this place and not at all the image of enslaved toil Dutch had painted that very morning.

“It’s been awhile,” she ventured. “The gang… we were startin’ to worry ‘bout you.”

He chuckled at that. “An’ you can tell ‘em I’m fine,” he drawled.

She thought of the tidy, hominess of the damn cabin, and the smell on those sheets and Abigail’s envy began to leech towards impatient worry. “When you comin’ home, Arthur?”

That little smile of his dropped along with his gaze and he placed his broad hands on his hips and sighed. Arthur looked at the ground a long moment before rallying to meet Abigail’s eyes. “I ain’t,” he replied.

 “Why not?”

“I reckon I’m done.”

Done? Being forewarned had not prepared her for the blow and Abigail wondered if a punch to the gut would hurt as much. How do you be ‘done’ with family? Like his whole life with them were just a stepping stone to… to…some glorified whore. Her worry gave way to anger and Abigail pinned the older outlaw with a withering glare. “So yer too good for us now?”

“That ain’t it,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s just…”

“Just what, Arthur?”

“Emma ain’t cut out for all that,” he said. He brushed past her, heading into the cabin and Abigail followed.

“Then maybe _she_ ain’t cut out for _you_! Ever think of that?”

“Aw, hell,” he groused, pouring water from a pitcher into the wash sink. “You don’t know what yer talkin’ about.”

“Don’t I?”

“No,” he said. Arthur soaked a washrag and set to cleaning himself up like she was not there. “You don’t.”

“I know she’s soundin’ worse fer you than Mary.”

Arthur put the washrag down and braced himself on the vanity. He did not look at her. “That so,” he asked gruffly.

“Mary may have had high ideas, but she never got you to turn yer back on family.”

He said nothing at first. Just started into that basin. Then, in a cool tone: “She shoulda tried… I shoulda tried.”

Abigail frowned. It was the closest he had ever come to a critique of his beloved Mary. “How can you say that?”

“I don’t wanna be makin’ the same mistakes over an’ over’,” he said. “I wanna make somethin’… have a family of my own. Before it’s too late fer me.”

“You have a family, Arthur!”

“It ain’t the same, --”

“Ain’t the same? What about us?” Abigail pressed. She grasped Arthur’s meaty shoulder and he shrugged her off as if it burned. “Jack misses you, ya know?”

He let out a slow breath. “I know,” Arthur said, nodding. “He’s a good kid.”

“And he needs _you_ , Arthur! A boy needs a man in his life!”

Arthur’s mouth twisted to a grimace then. “He has his daddy!”

She hated it – that pragmatic as she was, her fool heart led her time and again into this ruin. Abigail wished, not for the first time, that she had waited for a man to love her how she loved John. Maybe then she’d be the one with a roof over her head. She looked at Arthur now. Steady, dependable Arthur. The shame burned her cheeks as she said it. “You know John is useless.”

Arthur nodded. “So?” he grumbled. “It don’t change that Jack ain’t mine.”

“Yer bein’ surprisinly selfish, you know that?” Abigail hurled at him. “After all the bluster you gave John ‘bout leavin’! An’ now here you are!”

“Here I am,” Arthur allowed caustically. “Doin’ somethin’ fer myself for a change. So quit carryin’ on like I’m --”

“Abandonin’ us?” Abigail pressed. “An’ fer what? Good Lord, Arthur! She ain’t got nothin’ you can’t get elsewhere!”

He did not miss her insinuation. From the narrowing of his gaze and the mean glint in his pale eyes, Abigail knew too late she crossed a hallowed line.

“Funny,” Arthur said, a nasty little smirk curling his lip. He took a step forward and his voice dropped. “Comin’ from the most popular girl on nickel night.”

Abigail felt her face grow hot. “Will you get over it already!”

“Um… excuse me?”

Abigail’s gaze snapped to the breathy, intruding voice. The girl stood in the doorway. In a fine blue riding dress. The bunch of pristine lace that spilled over her breast heaved with her steady breathing. An elegant, gloved hand braced against the frame. Petite and delicate. Of an age with Abigail but so soft from a lifetime of good living that she seemed much younger.

“Emma,” Arthur said. His voice went warm and smooth. “Didn’t see you ride up, darlin’.”

 “Arthur.” Miss Emelia said his name like people say prayers. Even though worry strangled her speech and her gaze lingered suspiciously on Abigail. She pulled off her leather gloves. “You forgot to mention we might have a guest today.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “Emelia, this here is Miss Abigail Roberts,” he said, stepping toward the girl, and she looked him in the eye. Tossed her gloves on the table. “She’s, uh, from the, uh…”

“Oh,” Emelia said. “I see.”

So Arthur had told this harlot about them. Emelia smiled at him, warm and genuine when he reached her, towering over her. She framed his head in her hands and Abigail saw the gleam and glitter on Emelia’s left hand. Soon wedded and certainly bedded and Arthur leaned forward, and Emelia kissed him, once, upon the lips. “Did you have a good day?” she asked.

Arthur nodded, a smile flickering across his weathered face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know.”

Emelia smiled up at him. Shook her head, almost imperceptible and brushed the cluster of scars in his squared chin with a gentle thumb before turning her attention to Abigail. The doctor found a brittle smile.

“How do you do, Ms. Roberts?”

“Well enough, I suppose,” Abigail stated coolly. She crossed her arms. “I’d be finer if Arthur here’d come back home.”

 “He is home,” Emelia replied. An awkward silence threatened to follow, but Emelia barreled through it like a boar through underbrush. “Can I get you anything, Ms. Roberts?” she asked. “Some tea? Or coffee, perhaps? We have some corn bread. Arthur, dear, could you please go down into the cellar and fetch the butter?”

Fetch? What a funny thing it was to watch. This highfaluting girl trying to order about this cold, hardened outlaw who griped and grumbled about everything.

But Arthur just smiled at her, all dopey, and nodded. “Sure, darlin’.”

“No!” Abigail said quickly. “No, I think it’s best if I got back.”

“Oh, so soon?” the little she-devil cooed. “But we’ve only just met.”

Abigail nodded, curtly. “Yep…. thank you. Miss.” She folded her hands and looked at Arthur expectantly and that awkwardness settled now in earnest. The outlaw cleared his throat.

“Well, it were nice seein’ you all the same, Abigail,” Arthur said. “You, uh, take care, now.”

“But… I need a ride,” Abigail stammered. “Javier said you’d give me a ride.”

Arthur sighed. “Ya mean he just left you here?”

“Oh forget it,” Abigail flared. “I’ll just walk, seein’ how yer so high an’ mighty now -”

“Come off it, Abigail,” Arthur snapped, sounding like himself again. “We both know I ain’t gonna let that happen.”

Emelia grabbed his arm. “Must you?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t feel right lettin’ her walk,” Arthur said in a markedly softer tone. “Especially considerin’ those disagreeable fellas we ran into them weeks ago.”

Emelia bit her lip and nodded. “I… I am sorry, Arthur. You’re right.”

He looked out the window. “Well… I’m gonna go see if Mr. McCourt will lend me the cart. Best we be gettin’ on if I wanna get back before nightfall.”

“Fine by me,” Abigial drawled.

“Yes,” Emelia added. “Yes, that would be best.”

Arthur took his gun belt off the bed post and Emelia watched with a muted look of disquiet on her face. He cinched it around his hips and then left, leaving the two women alone. Disdain hung in the air like dust. Emelia looked suddenly ill at ease, her fingers twisting nervously at her skirts. “So…” she said.

“This is a lovely home you got,” Abigail tried.

“Arthur thinks so.”

Abigail inhaled sharply, recognizing a woman laying claim. “He’s an outlaw.”

“I know.”

Abigail raised a brow. “He told you?”

“He tells me many things, when we’re alone together,” Emelia shared with a tiny smile. Blush flared across her freckled cheeks. “I learn something new about him each day. He’s… he’s been through so much.”

“Arthur’s a good man,” Abigail conceded jealously.

Emelia nodded. “He tries. That’s all anyone can do.”

“Won’t change nothin’,” Abigail said.

“Arthur told me all about you, Ms. Roberts,” Emelia replied. “About his ‘brother’, John. And about your son.”

“He can’t change any more than you can turn whiskey into tea,” Abigail pressed, grinding her teeth. She thought of John. Tried to imagine them here. Cooking in this kitchen. Jack playing out in the yard. A strong, sturdy husband and his determined little wife. She wanted to see it. What good were dreams to outlaws and whores? “Bein’ an outlaw is fer life,” she added stubbornly. “Only one way out.”

“No,” Emelia said.

“No?”

“I understand Arthur can’t undo his past,” Emelia tried. “But he is a good man. He knows, now, that he has a choice. Today. Tomorrow. Being free to help people when he can… that’s what makes Arthur happy.”

“Arthur ain’t ever ‘happy’.”

“No, I suppose he wasn’t,” Emelia allowed. “Living counter to his own nature.”

That stung. “Anyone ever tell you that you talk a lot of nonsense? Arthur may be better than some, but he ain’t no saint.”

“Every saint has a past, Miss Roberts. And every sinner has a future.”

Lord Almighty this girl was unbearable. So much so that Abigail excused herself and waited out on the porch for Arthur. Waited for what felt like an age, before he finally rolled up with a cart, hitched to a hefty white shire. Miss Emelia came outside then.

“A good day to you, Miss Roberts,” she said in farewell. Insufferably polite.

“And you,” Abigail replied grudgingly. She went to the cart without another word and Arthur helped her climb up into the seat before he went to Emelia.

“I don’t like this, Arthur,” Emelia said.

“I know,” he said.

Emelia idly adjusted the dark kerchief around his neck as he kissed her forehead. She lowered her voice. “What if… what if they don’t let you leave?”

Abigail snorted. What did she think they would do? This gang who were more flesh and blood to him than the couple who spawned him?

“Don’t fret none, darlin’,” Arthur replied, gently palming the back of her neck. “I’ll crawl home if I have to.”

Emelia stared up at him. “That does not make me feel any better.”

He kissed her. “I’ll come home, sweetheart.”

Miss Emelia could not find a smile, the worry etched clear on her face and Abigail half expected she would protest again, but she did not. She went back to the house. Stood on the porch amid the sprouting flower boxes. Watched as Arthur climbed up and sat next to Abigail. He waved once more to Emelia before he snapped the reins and set the cart to motion. Abigail did not speak until they were well away from the McCourt ranch, until they were finally out on the open, grassy plains. Abigail cast him a glance.

“Seems Miss Emelia don’t approve of your past.”

“What decent woman would?”

“Didn’t know you liked ‘em so young,” Abigail said.

Arthur threw his gaze up to the sky and sighed. “Don’t start, Abigail.”

“Simply makin’ an observation is all.”

“She ain’t much younger than yerself,” he added. “Besides. You consider maybe I just like _her_?”

No. Abigail did not want to imagine naked affection. Nor did she want to consider or acknowledge that Emelia could love him as he was. They rode on, and where once a companionable ease was shared between them, now only a loaded silence remained. The older outlaw clearly considered the matter closed, while Abigail felt a mounting pressure to beg and plead. What would she and Jack do without Arthur as insurance against John’s neglect?

“It weren’t just about loyalty,” Arthur said, suddenly disrupting the silence.

“What?”

“The reason I’m so… annoyed with John.”

“Well?” Abigail said. “What is it then?”

“You an’ Jack,” Arthur said.

Abigail frowned. “I… I don’t understand.”

“John’s a lucky man. Guess I just… envied ‘im,” Arthur replied. He shrugged. “Damn fool had what I wanted or… what I had. Once. When he abandoned you an’ lil’ Jack…” Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. “Well. It got under my skin some.”

“Yer…you’re not sayin’…?” Abigail swallowed.

Uncle had been a customer. A regular who sometimes just wanted to hear her play the keys. Or sometimes just talk. Funny old man. He liked her enough to convince her to meet his ‘family’. Seemed like a taste of freedom then. She plied her trade on her own terms and everyone had a go, eager to enjoy what she could contribute. Dutch and Pearson. The Callendar boys. Sean. Could a price be placed on a warm bed and a pretty young girl?

And finally, John.

Arthur kept his eyes on the road. He shrugged again, uncomfortably. “Goddamn fool,” he grumbled. “If it’d been me, in John’s boots, I’da married you four years ago.”

“Oh.”

She had propositioned Arthur. A few times during those first couple of months. Trying to remind the brooding enforcer that she was willing and open for business.

“Nah,” Arthur would always say. Gentle as a lamb. Abigail could still see his awkward half-smile. “Maybe some other time.”

Some other time never came. Abigail wondered now. _Could_ she have had the sturdy home and husband? Did _she_ deserve such things?

“I was too hung up on… well, my own troubles,” Arthur said. He sighed. “But… yer a good woman Abigail. It ain’t right, all the grief John gives ya. I just… I wish he’d grow up an’ treat you and that boy right.”

Abigail swallowed the growing lump in her throat. “I… thank you, Arthur.”

“So… this here, with Emma? It’s _my_ chance, Abigail. For all that again. A home an’ a wife an’, an’…”

He could not even finish the sentence. They both fell silent, with only the creaking and rumbling of the wagon.

“She… she shook somethin’ loose inside me,” he added. “Somethin’ I thought long dead.”

“You love her?”

Arthur smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “I sure do.”

Abigail looked away.

“But you weren’t even gonna say good-bye.”

 “I was plannin’ on it,” he said. “Just… wanted ta wait ‘til ya’ll were ready to move on. Figured it be easier.”

“Easier fer you, you mean,” Abigail said mutinously.

“You know how Dutch can be,” Arthur said. “I don’t wanna get all turned around on this.”

“If yer so sure there oughta be no way he can get you twisted.”

“You know how he can be.”

Abigail did not, rightly, know what Arthur meant by so ominous a statement. She puzzled it over the whole remainder of the ride. How would she tell Jack? Or John for that matter. Maybe… maybe they would simply not talk about it at all.

They crested the hill and saw the collection of tents and wagons around the one lone pinyon tree at the edge of the calm Flat Iron. Fires alight. Arthur drew the cart up along the outer most tents and stopped.

“Ulysses has returned!” Dutch confidently proclaimed, striding toward them.

Arthur sighed. “Here we go,” he muttered.

“I see you’ve found our wayward hero,” Dutch said grandly to Abigail, smiling. A cigar pinched between his fingers. “And not a moment too soon!”

“Heh, good to see you too, Dutch.” Arthur said. His head was inclined toward their leader, but his eyes scanned the camp. The gang members approached now.

“Thank you,” Abigail whispered under her breath.

“Don’t mention it,” Arthur replied, not looking at her. Abigail climbed down from the cart.

“It’s good to have you back, son,” Dutch said. “Micah an’ I have got some things to discuss with you.”

“You ‘n Micah?” Arthur asked, deadpan.

“Mighty, excitin’ things,” Micah added enigmatically. He puffed out his chest. “Whiles you was off puttin’ quarters on that spit, some of us were hatchin’ plans. _Big_ plans.”

“I don’t wanna know.” Arthur let out an audible, disgusted sigh. He looked at Dutch. “Yer lettin’ inmates run the asylum now?”

Dutch chuckled. “Every vice is but an exaggeration of a necessary and virtuous function.”

“Uh huh,” Arthur grumbled. “You got a line fer everythin’.”

Dutch frowned.

“What I tell ya, boss?” Micah asked. “Sour as ever.”

“Come on down from there,” Dutch said, waving Arthur down from the cart. “We’ll have a quiet drink and discuss the finer points.”

By now, the whole camp was out. Arthur shook his head. “I ain’t stayin’,” he said. “I gotta get back.”

“Oh, don’t you worry, Arthur,” Dutch said with a chuckle. “We’ll get you back to enjoyin’ yer honeymoonin’ soon enough. But first -”

“I’m done, Dutch.”

“Whaddaya mean by that?” Karen asked. She blew out a puff of cigarette smoke.

“You been to town a few times, Karen,” Micah said. “You mean to tell me you ain’t seen Arthur’s fine piece of tail?”

Karen took a drag. “Yeah. I seen ‘er,” she said on the tail of a puff of smoke. She snorted. “Several weeks ago. Ain’t nothin’ special.”

“Nothin’ special?” Tilly chimed in. “She’s a _doctor_! I always knew things was changin’ fer women. I think it’s great, Arthur!”

Arthur smiled. “Why, thank you, Miss Tilly.”

“I went to see her,” Mary-Beth confessed. “It was nice to talk to a lady doc about… lady things. She seemed _real_ nice. You gonna bring her ‘round Arthur?”

“Well, uh, actually…”

“Oh, Doctor Griswold is much too ‘fine’ fer the likes of us,” Abigail threw in. “She’s already fixin’ to hogtie and brand him.”

“Golly, Arthur,” Mary-Beth said, grinning. “You really gettin’ hitched?”

Arthur chuffed a little, looking down, too late to hide the flooding of color beneath the brim of his hat. “Well, she was foolish enough to say yes…”

“I knew it!” Mary-Beth giggled. So sweet and still so naïve. “I knew you was a romantic!”

Arthur nodded. “Yeah, well… I guess that cat’s outta the bag.”

“So what now?” groused Karen, not sharing in Tilly and Mary-Beth’s good-natured enthusiasm. “Yer just gonna walk away? Fer a piece of ass?”

“What happened to ‘loyalty’, Arthur?” John demanded.

“Goddamn it, John, this ain’t the same -”

“Now, now,” Dutch cut in, striding back toward Arthur, arms outstretched in appeasement. “We should be _happy_ for Arthur. It is my sincere hope that all of you welcome the future Mrs. Morgan like a sister. Afterall, she is possessed of skills that will only be an asset to our little family.”

“We’ll show her a real good time,” Micah snickered.

“No,” Arthur said in a firm tone. “I mean no offense, but… this way of life, it just won’t suit her.”

“No reason why it shouldn’t,” Dutch said, trying to sweeten Arthur’s sour mood. “It suited Bessie and Annabelle, and Ms. O’Shea…”

“Yeah,” Arthur said with huff. “An’ look what happened to poor Annabelle.”

Dutch stared at Arthur for a long moment. “It weren’t our way of life that killed Annabelle,” he said calmly. “Colm O’Driscoll is an animal.”

“You killed his _brother_ , Dutch.”

Dutch blinked. “What has that woman done to you, son?” he asked. A bitter coldness seeped into Dutch’s rich voice, forming like frost.

It was the last light of day and though the birds sang their farewells, no one else spoke. This… this was not like when John left. The hardness of their faces, the intensity with which they watched the proceedings… they all knew it in the pit of their guts. Only Micah seemed pleased by this, fingering the handle of his pistols. Creepy little smirk on his face.

 _Oh, please,_ please _don’t do anything stupid…_

“Emma’s done nothin’ but take a chance on me,” Arthur replied.

“Take a chance on you,” Dutch repeated.

Arthur nodded. “Yep. She sure is.”

“She worth more to you than this family? After the chance _I_ took on _you_? Do you forget how I found you?”

“I appreciate _everythin’_ you, an’ Hosea have done fer me. I, I do. I ain’t never gonna forget it. But, but… I’m tired of wanderin’. Well.. more everythin’ that goes with it…”

“You’re _tired_?”

Arthur said nothing. He gave a slow nod.

“You don’t think _I am_ tired?” Dutch demanded. “That we are _all_ _tired_ , Arthur? Here we are! On the eve of something… _spectacular_. Somethin’ that’ll set us, all of us, up for _life_. Livin’ free! Here we are. At the end of the journey. An’ _you_ are too tired?”

“Come on, Dutch. I ain’t never been clever enough fer all yer fancy rhetoric.”

“Rhetoric?” Dutch snapped, and Abigail flinched. She felt guilty for shaming Arthur’s reluctance to come sooner. Now. “Truths, you fool.”

“Maybe,” Arthur conceded. He shrugged. “It’s just… I wanna try livin’ quiet. With a good woman an’… what with you all doin’ well an’ all -”

“You goddamn fool.”

Arthur stared at Dutch. Real quiet. Thinking. Or stunned perhaps. Here he was, trying to tell _his_ truth and they were making a war of it. Denying the simple truth that, for twenty years, he never faltered.

Until now.

“I… I gotta get back,” Arthur said, rather lamely.

“Or maybe we’ll take that there horse and cart,” Micah offered. “Consider it yer parting gift.”

Arthur grew very still, his right hand resting atop his right thigh. Angled toward Micah.

“No,” Hosea said, speaking up from near the campfire. He came forward now, as he spoke. “Now, I know you’re feeling a little hurt Dutch, seeing our boy here leave the nest, but this ain’t no different than when I left for Bessie or when John ran off and drifted about only God knows where.”

“Hosea,-” Dutch began.

Hosea put a hand on Dutch’s shoulder and said; “It would be a _damn_ shame to have that big job of yours derailed on account of a stolen nag.”

Dutch stared at the older conman for a long moment. “Fine,” he finally said.

“You should hurry along, Arthur,” Hosea said. “Get on now. Go.”

And Arthur left.


	28. Like Real People Do

“Well to _Hell_ with _him_ , then!” Dutch declared. His voice boomed in the still air over the receding rumble of the cart and there was no doubt Arthur heard the curse.

Damn right, John thought. To hell with Arthur Morgan. Goddamn hypocrite.

“Mighty fine night to pay a social call,” Micah observed, fingering the custom-carved skull grip of his blackened steel pistol.

A shuffling and a murmur rippled through the gang as they stood, scattered around Dutch in the growing dusk. John did not lend his voice. True, he felt a little hot from this whole mess, but this…

But Hosea rounded on Micah. “Don’t you even think about it, you goddamn fool!”

Micah chuckled, throwing his hands up. Not for the first time that night, a tense silence fell upon them. Hosea looked at Dutch, and the edge to his voice was sharp and serious. “Arthur isn’t a threat an’ you know it!”

“Men do funny things for a honey pot,” Micah chimed. “ _Funny_ things, _indeed_. And that sour old bear is probably _starvin’_.” The hitman chuckled at his own joke, though no one else laughed. “For all we know, she might push him to turn us all in.”

 _I sure as hell never would,_ John thought. No woman would ever force John to abandon the men who plucked him from the gallows. No. John had seen too many cons and fleeced too many sheep to give up his God-given freedom.

“Hosea’s right,” Dutch finally agreed. He started walking back into camp, toward the main fire, and they all followed as he spoke. “Arthur may have his… priorities _skewed_ right now, but he ain’t a rat.”

“I’d feel safer if we didn’t have any loose ends,” Micah pressed.

“He doesn’t know a damn thing about what we’re plannin’,” Dutch reasoned, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “He made certain of that himself. And even if he did, there is _nothin’_ he can do to stop us. Besides…” Dutch paused a moment and allowed himself a chuckle. “Can you imagine the look on his face when he hears about this? He’ll be _begging_ for a piece of the action.”

Micah’s smile disappeared beneath the long blond mustache and his eyes went dull. “If you say so, Boss,” he grumbled.

“I do,” Dutch said. By now, they had reached the center of camp. By the lavishly furnished tent Dutch shared with Ms. O’Shea. Dutch stepped up on an empty, overturned apple crate. “Now _listen_! All of you!”

And the faithful gathered around him. They could all see him, the fire in his eyes and it made John feel better. “We ain’t got time to worry about the _faint_ of heart or the _weak_ -willed. Tomorrow, we make history!”

“Sounds like you gotta plan,” Uncle said.

“Of course.” Dutch smiled. “We’re hitting an Express team heading for St. Denis. Banknotes marked to pay for all that there progress we’re seein’ in Blackwater. Me, Micah and Javier will board that ferry. While these fine gentlemen take care of the Express guards, I’ll relieve them of the lockbox.”

“You’re really going through with this?” Hosea asked. “After what I told you?”

“Fortune favors the brave,” Dutch replied.

“It don’t feel right,” Hosea pressed.

Dutch stared a moment blinking. “With any less a team than we have, I would be inclined to agree with you, old friend. But with this crew beside me? We can accomplish _anything_.” Dutch looked to the back of the gathered members. “Jenny and Karen!” he shouted. “You girls will board the ferry as ladies, taking up positions to cover our ferry team. Think you can get sidle up to them guards?”

Jenny batted her lashes. “Sure as a honeybee finds flowers, Boss. How you want ‘em dealt with?”

“Knock ‘em out, dump ‘em in the drink... I don’t much care how you do it, so long as they are taken care of.”

Karen crowed with delight. “You got it, Dutch!”

“John!”

“Yeah, Dutch?”

“John?” Hosea asked. “I thought John was with me.”

John looked between the two, torn. He had promised Hosea he would help with the confidence scam. But this ferry job. Dutch kept saying a job like this came but once in a lifetime. And when Dutch started talking with this sort of passion it became a catching thing. A wildfire that spread quick and consuming.

“Not no more,” Dutch said. He pointed his cigar out towards the darkness. “ _Your_ help just rode off to _domesticated_ bliss.”

Hosea’s mouth twisted and though the silver conman shook his head he muttered; “Fine.” Dutch smiled and turned his gaze fully upon John.

“I need you, son,” he said in all seriousness. “Now more than ever.”

“An’ I got yer back, Dutch,” he said. “ _Always._ ”

“You, Mac and Davey hold that dock. No one, you hear me? _No one_ boards that ship once the action starts. Secure it and keep those damn lawmen pinned down in their station.”

“An’ what about us?” Sean asked. “Are we not gonna get a piece o this action then, eh?”

 “Of course, my boy,” Dutch said, his tone as soothing as Abigail conceding candy to Jack. “You, Bill, Charles, Lenny… I need you boys to have the horses just a short distance up the street. Once that dock is secure, and we’re off the ferry, you bring them up and we’ll ride off into History.”

Micah grinned. “This is gonna be a mighty fine job, gentlemen,” he declared.

They worked out the details. The times that they suspected the Express company would try to move the lockbox and where the best choke points would be. Jenny and Karen planned to flirt their way in and Sean and Lenny were all too happy to play the role of fool guards, play acting and Grimshaw and Molly put together the finery. “Turnin’ these sow’s ears into silk purses,” Molly said in her charming brogue.

The morale in camp should have been high on the eve of so grand a design.

But once the plan had been set, they went their separate ways. Dutch to his tent and the gang dispersed. Sitting around the fires, in a sort of stunned stupor. The fire filled the spans of silence with its own monologue. Crackling, popping, hissing. It was easy to simply stare at the hypnotic licking dance and not say anything at all.

Any smart fella was happy with the freedom of camp life, John thought. He certainly was. So why did Arthur keep wondering what was beyond the horizon? Even after Mary, Arthur wondered and wandered beyond and, in the wandering, seen strange things and met strange folk.

“I have seen great beauty and great ugliness in men, and all things in between,” he had said once. They were sitting around a similar campfire in a different place then. Further north, and still west. One of the rare moments since John’s return that Arthur was not growling at him. “You ever wonder,” he then asked. “About the money we take. That the people we take it from might… I dunno… need it, maybe?”

“Rich folk,” John had said. What further justification could ever be needed? “At least we steal it honest.”

Arthur leaned forward then, bracing his elbows on his knees, the bottle of ocher rye whiskey in his large hands. John could remember how he had nodded in agreement, but he stared into that fire. The way the light etched the lines of his face and lit his eyes. “I had to collect off a woman today.”

“And you call me lucky?” John mused. He laughed. “Sounds to me like you’re the one gettin’ all the easy work.”

Arthur did not share in his mirth. He did not even spare John a glance.

“She certainly ain’t rich.”

“Then she must have been stupid,” John remembered saying. Only stupid people fell prey to old Leopold Strauss. “What are you gettin’ at?”

Arthur had shrugged and took a long pull of the rye, still staring into the flames. Finally, he said: “I got the money.”

“You really think this a bad idea, Hosea?” Lenny asked, breaking the spell.

Hosea poked at the fire with a gnarled, charred poking stick, thoughtful. “Maybe,” he said as sparks broke and shot up on the heat. He sighed. “Or maybe I’m just getting too old for all this. Time for me to step aside and allow you young guns to decide our course.”

“Maybe,” Mac said. Gruff, blunt, but not in a jeering sort of way.

Hosea nodded, getting to his feet. “Yes,” he concluded. “Well. Make sure you all get your rest for tomorrow. Good night.”

“Good night, Hosea,” John said.

“Dutch ain’t ever led us astray,” Davey added once Hosea was away.

“But we ain’t ever done something like this without Arthur,” Javier said.

“And?”

“I dunno know,” the rebel said with a shrug. “Just seems… unlucky, I guess. A bad omen him leavin’ like this.”

“Well I can’t believe it,” Bill finally said. He, like all of them, had looked to Arthur. Despite suffering the enforcer’s sarcastic criticisms. “I had thought better of Morgan. He always said loyalty were everything.”

“It is,” Uncle confirmed.

“Then what the hell is goin’ on with him?”

“He’s finally over that dreadful Gillis woman,” Mary-Beth chimed in gently. “I’ll miss ‘im, sure, but… well, I mean… we’re all gonna leave eventually, aren’t we? One way or another?”

“You’re an idiot,” Ms. Grimshaw snapped.

“That’s not very nice,” the girl protested indignantly.

“I call a spade a spade,” Grimshaw added. She rose from her seat and glared at Mary-Beth over the fire. “After everything we’ve done for him, there ain’t no reason this new woman of his can’t do as Ms. Roberts is doin’.”

“Yep, it’s been just dandy,” Abigail said, unsmiling. John looked at her over the fire.

“We’re his family!” Grimshaw continued in a pleading way. “What if… well, what if she turns out to be just another Mary?”

“Oh, I’d bet a bottle on it,” Karen said. “Mark my words. Morgan’ll come crawling back in no time.”

“Yeah,” Uncle agreed, confidently. “He’ll be back.”

Abigail stood then. “Good night,” she said plainly before slipping away. The abruptness worried John, and he quickly followed. He caught up to her, near her canvas lean-to. Perched on the edge of camp, opposite his own tent.

“Abigail,” John said.

She slowed but did not turn to look at him. “What is it, John?”

“Uh, how’s Jack?”

Abigail was still looking to her spartan living space, where they could both see Jack huddled on the ground in a nest of hunter green wool and red flannel. “Sleepin’.”

Right. “That’s good,” John said, nodding.

Abigail sighed and turned to look at him. “What do you want John? I ain’t in the mood nor am I drunk enough to play with you.”

“I… no, I wasn’t thinkin’-,” he said. Abigail seemed so worn out. Hands limp at her side. Shoulders sagging. No longer the fun, vivacious little thing that followed Uncle home five years ago. Babies sucked the life out of girls.

“Then what is it?”

“You went to see Arthur.”

She sighed. “Yep.”

“And?”

“And what, John?” she asked. “Will you stop beatin’ around the bush so I can get to sleep?”

“Why you so mad?” he asked hotly. “All I wanted to know was what you saw.”

“What I saw?”

“Yeah. Or what was said. You did speak to him, didn’t you?”

“Of course.”

“So?” John prompted. “I can’t make hide or hair of why he’s leavin’.”

Abigail looked down at the ground. “Ain’t it obvious?” she asked.

John stared at her, thinking and nothing came to mind. He shook his head.

“He…” Abigail looked over John’s shoulder to the camp. More quietly she said; “He _loves_ her, John. He’s gone and put a ring on her finger and a roof over her head and they’re… Hell, he’ll have a bun in that oven in no time.”

John nearly choked. “Arthur?”

“Why are we all so damn shocked?” Abigail huffed. “With how he was constantly nippin’ after you an’ Bill an’ well… anyone who loafed or were constantly in the sauce. Wanderin’ off fer days at a time, probably to get away from all the bickerin’. An’ how he is with Jack. Anyone with eyes should be able to see that this sorta thing means more to him than killin’ or whorin’ or hooch.”

“What are you goin’ on about?” John demanded, now thoroughly confused. “Arthur _hates_ civilization and _everything_ that goes with it. He’s always bitchin’ about what a nag you are and all the attention Jack needs. And you’re tellin’ me he’s _seeking_ this aggravation? For himself? Because of a woman? After that whole mess all them years ago?”

Abigail glared at him. “You’re a fool, John Marston,” she said.

“I’m a fool?” John demanded. “After all that nonsense about how lucky I am that everyone took me back? All his damn blustering and griping about trust and loyalty? No. Arthur’s the fool.”

“You are a goddamn fool and an idiot besides,” she confirmed. “He weren’t ever talking about the gang!”

“Start talkin’ sense, woman. Loyalty is _all_ he _ever_ talks about. I thought for sure he’d never-”

“He meant to _us_ , John. _Me and Jack_!”

“What?”

“Arthur _envied_ you!”

John blinked, unable to process it. “What?” he asked again.

“I mean, sure he did mention, often, that leavin’ like you did was wrong…” Abigail conceded. “But all that ‘bout you bein’ lucky and a fool?” Abigail looked up at the sky. Now the colour of a deep bruise. She laughed mirthlessly. “Even I didn’t understand it. It seems so obvious, now that it’s too late.”

“You’re _sure_ Jack ain’t his?” John asked instead. It had always been easier to imagine Jack were fathered by some other member of the gang. How could so bright and gentle a kid come from _his_ loins anyway? Maybe… maybe Arthur wouldn’t need this damn woman after all. Maybe he’d stay. Despite all the grumbling, John wanted him there, in some way.

But Abigail looked at John for a long moment. She did not flare up. Her eyes misted over, and she looked, instead, like she might actually cry.

“Damn it, John.”

“Look… I ain’t tryin’ to shame you,” he said.

“You don’t have to try,” she said, emotion threatening to cut off her voice. “You do it so much you got me wishin' it!  If I knew then what I know now. That you'd humiliate me, and hurt Jack, time an' time again... You finally got me wishin’ it weren't you. At least... if I could, I would wish it were Arthur!  At least _he_ would have taken care of me, treated Jack right.  Maybe have a bed for my son and a roof over our heads!"

Abigail stopped, sniffling. It stunned John, how much it hurt to hear it, and this strange mixture that followed. The feelings of relief and shame and even a touch of betrayal. She took a steadying breath, gathering herself up again. Girding herself in her steely determination. "There. I've said it,” Abigail said. More composed. “If there were even a ghost of a chance… but there ain’t. Arthur knows it, and I know it and we’re both of us loyal to you, so here we are.”

John did not know what to say.

“I know I love you, John,” Abigail said, her voice raw and her words under-cooked.  “Fer all the good it does me, I love you. Is there any chance maybe…?”

John looked at her, this tough woman who claimed to be the mother of his child. He felt something for her, didn’t he? When she was stripped so bare and so brutally honest. But especially when she smiled. How she laughed when she trounced people in dominoes, sore winner that she was. John certainly did not want to see her with anyone else. He wanted to kiss her.

But what did he know? John never knew his own mother. Only that she was some poor prostitute who died bringing him into the world. His father spoke more of his hatred for the English than he ever spoke of the woman who bore him a son.

What the hell did John Marston know of being a husband and a father?

“I don’t think I got that in me,” John said. He was many terrible things. He drank too much and ran his mouth faster than a thoroughbred could do a quarter mile, but he was also honest.

Abigail’s hand connected with his cheek and John welcomed the sudden sting.

“Who needs ya,” she cried. “Don’t know why you even bothered to come back!”


	29. Hatched by Her Warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I'm slow.

Tension bled out of Emelia’s spine as the cart shook and trundled over the horizon along with the man she loved and the weariness that nagged her since mid-morning returned with a vengeance. Her head ached and a strange queasiness fluttered in her belly. She needed rest. Arthur was not there to escort her, but she prayed all the same for a house-call. For anything to distract her from the worry now gnawing her heart. Shame chased on the heels of such a selfish thought. For hoping someone ill or wounded to be spared disquiet.

Emelia tidied the cabin. Reorganized their meager collection of enamelware, all blue and white speckled, and plain steel flatware. Twice. She unwrapped two striped monochrome cotton shirts from the laundry paper. Both in that charming corn-flower blue that lit his eyes. Prepared another bundle of dirty shirts to be dropped off with meticulous Mr. Wah on her way to St. Denis tomorrow. St. Denis. She needed to pack…

Emelia went outside and around back and walked to the stables. The light slanted all rose-gold, breaking through orange-gold and coral pink reefs of cloud and bathing the long eastern wall of the big barn. The shadows stretched. She found the horses already fed and the skinny young stable hand, Jimmy – maybe –, tipped his wide brimmed hat to her.

Bella and Boadicea picked up their heads from their oats and snorted their greetings. She fetched the brushes from the tack room. Emelia rubbed the hard-bristled comb over dusty patches, working until it came away. Drew her hands across the warm velvet of their pretty coats. Feeling every inch of their ardent-hearted bodies and still she thought of Arthur. Abigail Roberts had simply appeared uninvited on their doorstep. Warm and friendly as a pistol and demanding Arthur’s return like he was some horse they had lent out. Or worse, a cold bit of machinery with no thought or feeling at all.

Always in the after-haze of their lovemaking; when Emelia laid against the length of Arthur. Warm. Blood still pumping in their veins. He would confess. The truth of his life spilling forth like seed. His mother died when he was very young and though he remembered three things about her he spoke only of two. Scraps for his art and flowers. Butterfly weed chief among them.

“She reckoned anything that could attract so many butterflies’ has gotta be lucky, somehow,” he had said. Outlaws don’t keep gardens, but he tried keeping them anyway. For luck and remembrance. Flaming Spanish orange specimens packed tenderly with verdant moss and moist black earth in a small jar.

He did not speak, yet, of how she died.

He skirted around life with Lyle. Sleeping in straw. Between hooves. Safer with horses than with his father. Emelia listened in a dozy hush. Smoothing the hair on his chest with slow, soothing strokes. Drawing her fingers, gently, so gently, across myriad scars. A callous application of a cigarette here. A sagebrush there. Barbed wire bite marks. The ring that ripped a chunk from his chin. It was the ones she could not see that worried her most.  

From abuse to penury to violence. He was not proud of robbing. His first was some poor sot. No better off. Bread and some canned food. Dutch set him straight after that. Became a real father to him. Lyle set the bar on the ground. They turned his fear into aggression, harnessing all of Arthur’s bewilderment and bitterness and pitted it against society. Despite Arthur being the sort of man America was founded on. For. Robust and resilient. All work-ethic and humility and adventurous heart.

“Civilization gives good people a chance,” she had said.

“I know,” Arthur had murmured, pressing his lips to her forehead. “I know.”

The sun fell and still Arthur was not home. The darkness hummed with lightening bugs and the song of crickets, green points of whimsical phosphorescence dancing atop the spring grass. So pretty. So peaceful. Emelia wrapped their quilt, a borrowed patchwork, around her shoulders. She sat on the porch. Watching and listening and praying. The dull ache in her head carried on and exhaustion pulled heavy as weights upon her limbs and lids. She considered a sip of laudanum but instinct would not have it, telling her that sleep would be best. Once Arthur was home. The comfort of his warm, solid body and his arms around her. The deep reservoir of wisdom hidden beneath the rugged casing. Oh, please, please, please Lord, let him come home.

The gentle press of a calloused hand against her cheek and a husky voice coaxed her awake.

“Darlin’.”

Emelia’s eyes fluttered open and the fog of sleep cleared and she found Arthur there. Kneeling in front of her in the darkness. Black and silver and indigo. Smiling soft. Weary handsome and whole and she sighed with joy and pitched herself forward into his arms and breathed deep the hot heady smell of dust and horses and sweat and smoke.

“Arthur,” she sighed. Emelia kissed him hard. Felt the scrape of stubble and tasted the salt off his firm lips. Oh, thank God.

“What are you doin’ out here?” Arthur asked.

“Waiting for you,” she said, gathering the blanket around her shoulders once more. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I –”

“It’s alright.” He stood. So straight. So tall. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get inside.”

He helped her to her feet and opened the door and guided her forward, his hand on the small of her back. Emelia wondered how long she had slept in that chair. Arthur lit a single lamp. The flickering little flame cast long sad lines. He looked older. Arthur braced his large hands against the table, broad shoulders hunched and sighed.

“What’s wrong, Arthur?”

He chuffed but did not look at her. “Does anythin’ ever get past you?”

“I’d be a poor doctor, and a worse lover, if I could not read you now.”

Arthur said nothing. Emelia approached him. Close enough to feel the heat of his body. She placed one hand upon his back and other upon his hand and squeezed. “What happened?”

His mouth twisted a moment. “I told ‘em no.”

“No?”

“Dutch… he assumed I’d, uh, bring you _in_. If you catch my meanin’.”

“Oh.”

“I set ‘im straight.”

“That’s good, Arthur,” she said, finding a smile. Oh, she knew he could do it! “How… how did they take it?”

“About as well as I imagined they would,” he said. “Still gotta get my things. Say my good-byes. Tonight… tonight weren’t the time.”

“Why?”

“It’s…,” he paused. “Well. It’s complicated.”

“Is it?”

“Some’re feelin’… abandoned.” Arthur released a frustrated little breath. “And betrayed, I guess. I… well… they ain’t wrong. Dutch. Well he, uh, cursed me for a fool.”

“Do you think yourself a fool?”

“I dunno,” he said. “I feel a little strange, bein’ indebted to a fella like McCourt.”

“Indebted?” Emelia asked. “They’re paying you well for your knowledge and effort. You have _earned_ it.”

“Then why does it feel like sellin’ out?”

“Oh, Arthur,” she sighed. “Is that what they tell you? That earning money honestly is somehow dirty?”

He looked away and rolled his shoulder. As if he could somehow escape her questions. “Sorta.”

“Is stealing and killing noble, then?” Emelia asked.

He sighed. “I don’t know.”

“You do know,” she insisted. “It’s why you’re so cruel to yourself.”

Arthur hung his head, like a man in confession and sighed again. “They’re all I know,” he said. Voice hushed and scrubbed of his usual defensive edge.

Her heart softened. Emelia reached for his face. Pressed her palm against Arthur’s warm rough cheek and urged him to look her in the eye. “Twenty-two years is a lifetime,” she conceded. “But… you are smarter and wiser and stronger than you give yourself credit for. Please, Arthur. Trust yourself.”

“Ain’t that worse,” Arthur asked. He frowned, blinking. “Knowin’ we was lost an’ goin’ along anyway?”

 Emelia bit her lip. “I don’t know,” she said. “Do you think you could have changed their course?”

“I never tried,” he admitted. “I were always too afraid of provin’ myself a fool.”

“Well, I believe in you.”

A shy little smile tugged at his lips and Arthur looked down quickly, pinching the bridge of his nose. He blew out a breath before bringing his gaze back to her eyes and said, “Thanks, darlin’.”

Emelia smiled. She took his hand and tugged firmly. Arthur picked up the lamp with his free hand and followed. Around the table and to their bed. He set the lamp on the nightstand and turned to her and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her flush against him before kissing her.

“You’re so strong,” she whispered.

“I don’t always feel it,” Arthur said.

She would leave with Heidi tomorrow. Leaving him at so critical a time. She fisted the black kerchief around his neck and pulled him down. Kissing him as she set to unbuttoning his shirt, his pants.

“You are,” she insisted, drawing her hands over the firm grades of his shoulders and his chest. So broad. Strong. Sturdy. Gentle as he popped open the looped buttons of her chemise. The fastenings of her skirt. The hooks and eyes of her fine boned corset. Why, why did he not feel it? Arthur passed his hands across her skin. Slow. Deliberate. The reverent restraint of his strength. Lifting her. Laying her out, supine, wanting, and Arthur moved to cover her with the comforting warmth of his heavy body and she let Arthur in with a kiss before he pinned her hands over her head. Fingers linked. Palm to palm. Hedging her between strong arms and blocking out the world, everything narrowed down to Arthur as he moved above her inside her with warm slick strokes. Palm to palm, lips to lips, belly to belly. Slick and slow and sparking a gradual heat, diffusing through and singing in her veins. His grip tightened and he rutted deeper. The steady, rhythmic friction. Emelia gripped his iron hands, holding on, as that welcome dear now-familiar pleasure coiled, coiled, coiled… until her eyes watered and that tension unfurled to something wonderful. Leaving their limbs heavy, hearts pounding, bodies hot and so very, very sated.


	30. It Kills Me to Leave

_The trees reached at the moon with gnarled cracked claws. She leapt through a forest of long shadows. Her golden-brown coat a mangy stressed mess. She stopped. Chanced a glance at the risk of being caught. Two dark liquid points that unstitched him utterly. All traces of her peaceful spirit flown._

_Wolves howled and her head swiveled to their sound. Glossy black nostrils flaring. Tail flagged._

_She reeked of fear._

Arthur’s eyes snapped open to the soft light of dawn.  Found Emelia. Warm and still and soft. Draped against him. An arm across his waist. Her hair amassed near his throat. Arthur breathed deep the scent of her. Savoring her warm softness and watched the encroaching daylight jealously. Even while wanting her out of town.  Across the Flat Iron and safe while the gang exhausted their welcome in Blackwater. With any luck they would move on by the time she returned from St. Denis.

With her wedding clothes.

October. When the ranch work died down and things were quiet Emma would become Mrs. Emelia Morgan. A technicality, really. He didn’t need a preacher and some damn book to understand it or keep him true. The dark part of the vows, in sickness and poorness and bad times did not trouble him, starved as he was for fidelity.

If she still wanted him after the gang completed their next bit of foolishness.

The eve of something spectacular, Dutch had said. Spectacular was a mighty word and filled Arthur with no small measure of dread. Considering. They always liked their bank robberies – were the most successful gang in history in truth. The West Elizabeth Co-Operative, terrified as they were now of shipping anything by stage, was the obvious choice. Or the Dispatch. Maybe.

She stirred. Began drawing lazy patterns across the planes of his torso, smoothing the hair on his chest.

“When did you know,” Emelia murmured, voice soft and sleepy.

“Know what, darlin’?”

“That you loved me?”

“Oh, I dunno.” Arthur twined his fingers with hers. He crushed windpipes and broke bones with these thick scared hands. While her soft, slender fingers fixed folk instead of hurting them. “It don’t matter, does it?”

“I’m just curious,” she said. He felt her shrug. “For me, it coalesced in the meadow. Watching you rip those poppies from the earth, all for the sake of my practice. And then you came to me with those bluebonnets and drew in my journal? All the pretty things you’ve drawn for me since… Oh, Arthur. I never dared imagine a man like you.”

“A sour old degenerate?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of humble and kind and deeply introspective and --”

“You seein’ someone else?” Arthur interrupted.

She hummed. “Oh, I am quite certain that you have forever ruined me for other men.”

“How’s that?”

“After how you’ve encouraged and enabled me in my own endeavors?”

“Oh, I am a _terrible_ enabler.”

Emelia giggled. “Oh, you are. You are. You let me be precisely who I’ve always wanted to be. My old circle would think me thoroughly corrupted.”

“Heh,” he chuckled. Thankful she could not see him blush. “Thoroughly.”

“Oh, Arthur. I can’t believe I was ready to give up and go back home.”

“That day at the stables,” Arthur guessed. The day he invited her to be more familiar. The day he started hoping.

“You saved me,” she said. “By simply offering your aid. Thank you, Arthur. For your unfailing support. For teaching me to ride and to believe I could do this. For… for loving me just as I am.”

Arthur cleared his throat. “Promise not to laugh?”

“Please, Arthur. Just tell me.”

“You had me from the moment I first saw you.”

A soft, bubbly giggle escaped her. “Really?”

“Sorta,” he said. “I knew all I needed right then. That you were brave an’ good. Too good for me.”

“Oh, Arthur.”

“Then Strauss put me on your trail and… well…” Arthur had not known how dark his world had been until he saw sunshine. To have someone like her believe in him. He squeezed Emelia a little tighter. “One thing led to another, I guess.”

“I wish I could say the same about you,” Emelia said. Her fingers stroked along his collar bone. “I… I’m glad, now. That I did not know it was you.”

Jesus Christ. Any one of them could have shot her. “Told you I wasn’t a good man.”

Emelia sighed. She shifted, rising to place her weight firmly upon his chest and gazed down at him. Arthur wrapped his arms around her waist, her spine curving so perfect around his arm.

“Arthur,” she murmured all warm and smoky. She leaned in to kiss him. Pressing her sweet lips to his in a slow, warming caress settling upon him like the pooling heat of brandy. She sat up and stretched. All languid and playful, reaching across his body. She plucked that old, beaten black hat off its perch on the bed post and drew one, shapely leg over Arthur’s thighs to straddle his hips.

“So,” Emelia began as she placed his hat on her head, cocking it low over her arched brows. Oh, Jesus. Wearing nothing but his hat and a smile and oh. What a sweet smile. He started to harden at the sight. “When you offered to teach me to ride....” Emelia paused as she rolled her hips and Arthur felt her slick against the length of his cock so ready and wanting. His breath hitched and he gripped her thighs. “Was _this_ what you hoped for all along?”

Arthur stared up at her, blinking. All soft curves and smooth and dainty veiled beneath a cascade of gleaming caramel tresses. Those rich dark eyes so softly lashed. Blinking slow and gazing so earnest. The freckles smattered across her little nose all beneath the shadow of his hat.

So goddamn beautiful his heart ached.

He was born to violence. Baptized in it. Why did this angel allow him to touch her? Arthur swallowed and allowed his hand to travel slow and reverent across her untarnished skin. No scars or bruises. A pilgrimage from her hip, the dip of her waist, the subtle ripples of her ribs, to her breasts. Soft and supple and tipped dusky rose and he watched her lips part with a sigh. Arthur dragged his gaze back to those lovely, dark eyes. He could draw her a thousand times and never do her justice. Arthur swallowed again and still his throat felt tight. “Honestly, darlin’?” Arthur said. “I still can’t believe I’m here with ya.”

Her cheeks flooded with colour. “Really?” Emelia breathed.

“Heh. I just wanted to help ya,” he said. “Make amends I guess and hoped maybe. Maybe…”

“Maybe?”

“You’d like me.” The heat started in his chest and moved to his face and he had nowhere to run. As if it were possible to be any more naked than he already was.

Emelia stared at him solemnly. “Oh, I _like_ you, Arthur Morgan,” she said in earnest, choosing that moment to take him. So warm and tight and sinfully soft. Arthur gripped her hips and choked on a moan, his head tipping back with the sensation. Her hands braced against his chest, nails raking just as he liked; Emelia rocked her hips with each word. “Very, _very_ much.”

Christ Almighty, this woman reduced him to a stag in rut and he could not help himself. Arthur palmed the curve of her ass as he bucked beneath her, his fingers flexing against her soft flesh. How far she had come, from the scared little thing so afraid of touching him. Emelia figured out right quick what she liked and how she liked it. She knew his body. Had explored him and charted him as promised with lips and fingers and hair. Learned things he did not know himself.

“Like this?” Emelia asked, swaying with the flexing of his hips. A sweet shock of pleasure with each swivel. “Like, oh, like this, Arthur? Do you like this?”

“Yeah…,” he managed.

“Does it feel good?” she asked. She arched her back and moaned. “Oh, please. Please. Please tell me it feels good.”

Arthur could barely see it felt so good. Drunk on sensation and pleasure and the view of her astride him, in complete control. He gripped her hips. Desperate to please, to answer her urgent questions between gasping breaths but she would not relent, focused now on her own pleasure. She forced his hands. Clasped one to her breast and his right, his right hand she guided lower and that… that he could manage. Wet his thumb with his tongue and set to work on that little pearl with slow smooth circles.

The words never formed. She came and he saw it felt it heard it and it unstitched him and he followed her. Oh, he followed hot and bleary and blissful. Emelia settled more firmly, sinking him deep as he spilled into her and she watched him. Skin flushed. Lips slightly parted and smiling soft. Emelia folded over him, her hair whispering against his skin, kissing Arthur deep as he finished, still pulsing and panting, holstered deep and wonderfully warm. She took the hat off now, nestling against his heaving chest, her head tucked beneath his chin. Clasping the brim, she let his hat come to rest near his shoulder.

“Why do you wear this old thing?” she asked on a sigh. “We could get you a new one.”

“You don’t like it?”

“Oh, I like it,” Emelia said. Her delicate fingers played across the braided leather band. “It has history, character. It is very much _you_. It’s just… well, it’s also very, very distinctive. Do you ever worry it might make you easier to recognize?”

“I never thought about it. Felt it were more important to remember.”

“Your father?”

Its silhouette in the doorway once shot a shiver of anxiety through his frame.

“I feared windin’ up like him,” Arthur said. “Kept the damn ratty thing as a reminder to be a different sorta man. For all the good that did me.”

Silence. Arthur drew his rough, calloused fingers along the curve of Emelia’s spine while she remained firmly atop him, tethered to him and he could hear the tide of her breathing and he found comfort even in that. She let go of the hat and laid her hand against his chest.

“You are not your father, Arthur.”

“I…, Christ.” His eyes stung and his throat tightened. He released a heavy sigh. “I just wanna do right by you, sweetheart.”

“You are,” she said.

“I am tryin’.”

“I wish I weren’t going,” she said. He could feel the vibrations of her, her voice soft and sleepy again. “Can we just stay in bed today? Like this? Until someone needs me?”

He cleared his throat. “I reckon the McCourts’ll have a thing or two to say about that.”

“Mmm. But… I don’t want to sleep in some cold, strange bed tonight. Heidi doesn’t need me to go,” she reasoned. “She was planning to visit her aunt and cousin even before this whole wedding dress nonsense started.”

“Nonsense?”

“I just… I know you really want that land, Arthur,” Emelia said. She drew her fingers along the column of his throat and Arthur closed his eyes. “And wedding gowns aren’t cheap. You could buy some cattle or a stallion for the cost of a dress I’ll only wear once.”

“But… don’t you want one? I thought ladies loved this sort of thing?”

“Oh, I do,” she admitted. “But I don’t _need_ it. Not like you need that land. A fistful of bluebonnets, and you, are all I need for a perfect wedding.”

Her declaration warmed him through and Arthur smiled. “Well. We’ll be waitin’ until next spring,” he pointed out. “Won’t be no more bluebonnets ‘til then.”

“Oh.” Emelia sighed.

“I’ll get ya more, darlin’,” he promised, still drawing his fingers across the smooth skin of her back. She would love the purple and blue foxgloves that were said to grow up along the range he hoped for. Let the gang pull their spectacular foolishness and mosey off to their Idyll. Let them find it, Lord, so long as they left him to his. “But… I think it’ll do ya some good. Gettin’ outta town for a few days an’ gettin’ yourself somethin’ fine.”

“Are you sure?" 

“We’ll make it back,” he said. “Besides, can’t we reuse the fabric or somethin’?”

“Yes. Drapes,” she said. She paused a moment and sighed. “And a Christening gown.”

Arthur curled his fingers in her hair and gently urged her up. Emelia propped herself on his chest, staring down at him. All rosy cheeked and doe-eyed.

“I love you,” he said. She smiled soft and blushed a moment before he pulled her in, pressing her body and her lips to his. They shared in a tender and slow embrace. They parted a fraction and Emelia drew the tip of her nose against his and smiled again.

“I’m going to miss you,” she whispered.

“I’ll miss you, too, darlin’.”


	31. Collateral Damage

Heidi bounced on the balls of her feet as Mr. Morgan loaded the first trunk onto the wagon. Next to Emelia’s own cases. They would meet the good doctor in Blackwater. Already the afternoon drew late, and Heidi felt anxious to be on the road.

“Did you really need to pack so much?” her mother asked. She stood in the shade of the wide wrap-around porch watching Mr. Morgan lift the second trunk onto the wagon. “You’re only going for three nights.”

“But it’s two nights in St. Denis!” Heidi stated. “I must look my very best.”

Her mother smiled. “I suppose,” she said.

“You had best get movin’,” Daddy said.

“We’re all set,” Morgan declared as he latched the tailgate closed. He climbed up and settled on the bench of the buckboard.

“Aunt Florence will pick you girls up from the dock,” Momma said as Heidi hugged her. “I better not hear about any missed manners or silliness, you understand?”

Heidi rolled her eyes and smiled. “Of course, mother.” She then hugged her father. Mr. Morgan offered his hand and helped Heidi up to the bench.

“And remember the tack over at Ralph’s,” Daddy added, speaking to the stable master. “The man seems to think he’s running a bank with how early he closes.”

Mr. Morgan tipped his hat. “Yes’sir.”

They rolled along the dusty road. In the distance, a stray herd of buffalo crested a hill. Over the dry grass, gold and bright against the shocking blue of the clear sky and the white of the clouds. Under the late afternoon sun Heidi was thankful for her wide brimmed bonnet.

“I’d never know Emma was a New York Griswold, from how she talks,” Heidi said, trying to pepper the silence.

“Ain’t that a shame,” Mr. Morgan drawled.

“She keeps saying she wants everything simple,” Heidi continued, more anxious of silence than his caginess. “A simple dress. A simple dinner. Just a few _friends_. No family. It just seems strange is all.”

“Well, Miss, I am an awfully simple man.”

“I’ve a friend who got married recently and they had a fine wedding. Four courses and all these fine gifts and dancing! It was a lovely party.”

“Yep. Sounds like.”

“Seems like good luck to start out on such a fine note, don’t you think? Don’t you want a _happy_ marriage, Mr. Morgan?”

He chuckled. “Puttin’ on airs ain’t gonna make us any happier than we are.”

Heidi looked at Mr. Morgan. Family-minded, her daddy had said. Wanting a wife for all the right reasons and plain in his affection. What were the ‘right’ reasons? Elizabeth Thornton never knew where Harold got to some nights. She had met Heidi at the Silver Skillet, more than once, white with worry and bereft of any hunger.

“Why you so worried about it, anyhow?” Mr. Morgan asked.

Heidi shrugged. “I like Emma. She’s a good egg, as my daddy puts it.”

“Yeah.” Morgan nodded. “That she is.”

“I just want her to be happy.” Heidi cast a glance to the older man sitting next to her. All clean shaven. “And you too, Mr. Morgan. I suppose.”

He smirked. “Why thank you, Miss Heidi,” he said.

“Well… my father likes you.”

“Nobody’s perfect.”

“He’s a good judge of character,” Heidi insisted.

“Then you trust his assessment of yer fancy Mayor Johns?” the old drifter asked.

Heidi’s mouth dropped. “He told you?”

Morgan chuckled. “Well… we talk horses. Sometimes that leads to talkin’ ‘bout other things too.”

“What did he say?”

“Only that he’s anxious fer you to marry right as opposed to well.”

“Is there a difference?”

“A mountain of it.”

“Emma and daddy may find your cryptic answers charming, but I would prefer you speak plain, Mr. Morgan.”

He chuffed. “Money is swell an’ all, Miss. I understand that, believe me. Been chasin’ it fer a long time. But… I also know there ain’t no way you can buy love.”

“I figure I could have both with a fella like Mayor Johns.”

Mr. Morgan did not look at her. “If you say so, Miss.”

It was just past four o’clock by the time they rolled into town. Past a few of the fine gabled homes with their tidy fences. The road became increasingly hedged in by sage brush and sycamore and oaks. They came up Tallulah Place, past the workers’ camp, a shanty of brown tents and chuckwagons and along the wide-open construction site of grand City Hall. Turned onto Sisika Avenue and pulled up alongside the docks. Heidi grinned when she saw the Lemoyne Eastern Riverboat Company sign. Gold lettering on curved white wood. She could see the twin stacks and the top deck of the Grand Korrigan. Floating just beyond the baby-blue ticketing station and little peaked roof of the single narrow, covered pier.

They found Emelia sitting on bench near the station, south-facing with her pretty mare hobbled near some grass just on the other side of the railing. In one of her high-slit riding skirts, her knee-high riding boots pressed together, prim and proper, hands in her lap. She seemed half asleep. Her dark eyes fluttering shut, head bobbing. But Bella saw or smelled Mr. Morgan and looked to them and tossed her head with a shrill whiney and Emelia perked up and looked and waved.

“You feelin’ alright, darlin’?” Mr. Morgan asked.

She smiled, looking drained despite the healthy blush of her skin. “Oh, nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”

“You folks intent on boarding?” a porter asked, seeing the wagon.

“Yup,” Mr. Morgan said. “These here ladies are on the ferry to St. Denis.”

“Best hurry then,” the porter replied. “They’ll be boarding soon. I’ll give you a hand, Mister.”

Heidi took a seat next to Emelia as the men unloaded the wagon.

“I’m so happy it’s finally here!”

Emelia watched Mr. Morgan. “Yes,” she said.

He hitched Belladonna to the wagon and unsaddled her, rubbing her back in vigorous circular strokes. Morgan placed the sweaty saddle and blanket and the special saddle bags in the back of the buckboard, just behind the bench and checked once more to make certain nothing got left behind.

“All set,” he said. He came up to the railing and pulled himself over like a man half his age.

“The laundry?” Emelia asked.

“I’ll drop it off,” Mr. Morgan said, closing the gap between them with a single step. Emelia clasped his hands.

“And my bags. I… I just restocked and –”

He nodded. “I know how you like ‘em, darlin’.”

“And the plants...”

“I’ll water ‘em.”

“There’s smoked ham and some cheese and greens in the cellar…” she faltered, staring at him. “Oh! I really, _really_ don’t _need_ to go, Arthur. Really!”

Mr. Morgan’s face cracked into a boyish grin. He braced Emelia’s head in his hands. “I’ll be okay,” he insisted.

Emelia stared up at him, gripping his wrists. She blinked. “You’re sure?”

He nodded, his grin fading to a warm smile. “I can’t wait to see what ya pick out, sweetheart.”

Mr. Morgan pressed his lips to her forehead and Emelia smiled and then they really kissed, public decency be damned. Heidi blushed and averted her gaze.

 _Alright_ , Heidi thought. _Perhaps some genuine passion would be nice._

Mr. Morgan stepped back from Emelia, slow and reluctant. Back to the railing and back over again. He pulled himself up and settled on the bench before tipping his hat. “Safe travels, ladies,” he said.

“Be good,” Emelia said.

“You know I will certainly try.”

Emelia watched him go. She sighed.

“You’re enough to give a person a toothache,” Heidi said. Emelia blushed.

“I just… I worry about him.”

“Oh?” Heidi asked, interest very piqued. “Why?”

Emelia stared up Sisika Avenue, chewing her lip. “He, um, grew up… rough.”

“I’d have never guessed,” Heidi added playfully.

The doctor smiled uneasily. She sat back down on the bench. “Life has not been kind to him. Some of his old… well, I guess Arthur would call them ‘family’, have been lingering around town.” Emelia stared out across the docks. Watching the bustle of activity. Porters hauling trunks and merchandise headed to St. Denis. Sacks of feed and beef. “They don’t encourage his best impulses.”

“I did try to warn you about them.”

“Yes,” Emelia conceded. She looked down at her hands in her lap. Neatly folded, the left resting on top and her ring plain to see. “You did. Well,” she sighed. “You were right on _that_ count. One of them even showed up at our home. She made it clear they are none too pleased with his recent choices.”

“Oh?”

“Me. Working honest. Not doing as he’s told. Honestly… the things he’s told me. They treated him more like a slave than a brother but… he just doesn’t _see_ it. How could he? He’s never known better.”

Heidi chewed her lip, not certain what to say.

“So… I’m worried, Heidi,” Emelia admitted. “About what might happen while I’m away.”

“Oh.”  

The porters finally came to collect their luggage, hauling away Heidi’s large trunk.

“Oh no,” Emelia gasped. She stood and rushed forward. She reached quick for a pack tuck amongst their things, before the young dusky man could take it and checked the contents. “Arthur’s shirts. Oh, he must have mistaken this as part of my luggage…”

“What?”

“I apologize,” Emelia said to the porter. “This, this is not going.”

“What?” Heidi said again, confused.

“It’s laundry.”

“Laundry?” Heidi asked. “Why wasn’t it with the rest in that big ol’ sack?”

“I wasn’t putting his work shirts with my sheets and blouses. I wonder, sometimes, if he willingly rolls in the dust with the horses...”

“But we’ll be boarding so soon.”

“It’s just across the street,” Emelia reasoned. “We can’t drag it with us to St. Denis.”

“No,” Heidi conceded, crinkling her nose. “That… that would be silly. Just… Please hurry. I want to board and find a good seat for tea.”

Emelia smiled. “Oh, that does sound lovely.”

The doctor hurried down the steps and south down Sisika Avenue, disappearing into the traffic. Heidi decided to walk over to the gangway. To get a better look at the Grand Korrigan and the soothing lapping waters of the Flat Iron. The ferry would depart at six o’clock, and drift across the cool flat lake beneath the stars to arrive in St. Denis tomorrow morning. The ferry stood tall, two decks and two tall stacks rising out the center of its arched back. Crisp white pillars and gleaming polished millwork harkened back to the great antebellum era. Sea gulls keened above, drifting on the air, searching for any morsels.

Two blond women and three men stepped off the deck, moving up the gang plank at a clipped pace. Silent and brisk. Heidi would have thought them civilians if not for their covered faces and pistols. They met two porters on the way with a trunk and shoved them unceremoniously over the railing.

Oh.

Heidi turned to hasten away.

“Help!” she called. “Two men have fallen in the water!”

The stairs to the street were blocked by men in the dark blue. Heidi froze. Sheriff Dunbar stepped forward, a double-barreled shotgun in hand.  Mr. Rodney Brooks, the chief of Police moved up next to him and raised his rifle.

A clap of thunder sounded from behind her and the air crackled with shots. People screamed. Heidi turned, racing for cover, as the brilliant flash of a muzzle went off next to her face. The sting of powder on her cheek lasted only a second before she collided with the shooter, knocking them both to the ground in a mess of flailing limbs.  She tried to find her way up.

“Stupid little bitch!" the shooter bellowed. A big man. Bigger even than Mr. Morgan, his face covered in a filthy yellow bandana, hair long and blond and stringy. He stumbled to his feet and kicked her.  The impact knocked Heidi to the side. She gasped for breath even as gunfire cracked over her head. A bullet tore a chunk out of the wooden planks next to her, splinters flying. Heidi scrambled, nails digging and scraping against grimy planks, finally managing to get to a pile of crates.

 “Fuck,” the brute snarled, falling backwards with a heavy graceless thud. Next to her.

“Davey?!”

He writhed. Crimson started to bloom on the front of his shirt, near his stomach. “Oh…fuck me…” Davey groaned. His heavy breathing buffeted against his bandana as he dragged himself behind the crates. Heidi did not want to touch him, pulled her skirts in tight around her and huddled against the wood.

“Dutch van der Linde!" someone cried out.  The gunfire dropped off. "This is Agent Milton of the Pinkerton Detective Agency!”

“Goddammit! How’d they know we’d be here?”

“Someone musta squealed.”

“By order of the United States Government, the Territory of West Elizabeth and the City of Blackwater, you are under arrest!” the agent shouted. “Throw down your guns and surrender!  Now!"

“I'll give you ‘surrender’," someone snarled in a low voice near her.  Heidi started crawling further behind the crates, away from these evil men, but suddenly a hand fisted into her hair, yanking her to her knees, then to her feet. She screamed. Then a sudden cool kiss of metal touched her temple. “I think it’s time to make a deal, Mr. Milton.”

“No, no no no,” Heidi sobbed. Her knees were weak but he held her fast, an arm slung tight across her collar, pressing her back firmly to his chest. “Please, no!”

“Quiet,” he snapped. His breath reeked of cigars. The barrel pressed harder to her temple and Heidi could not help but cry louder.

Agent Milton’s eyes remained fixed on the man behind her. He did not lower his gun. “Come on now, Dutch,” he said, so cordial. “We both know this isn’t your style.”

“Desperate times,” Dutch replied. “Now. Kindly step out of our way?”

Heidi wheezed, panicked. Gun smoke tinted the air. Sweat gathered and her corset began to itch, and she wanted, sudden and desperate, to be back at home.

“I’m afraid we can’t do that,” Agent Milton said.

“Are you prepared to have this girl’s blood on your hands?”

Agent Milton’s gaze did not falter. "Shoot her and you'll be the next one to die," he promised.

Heidi sobbed. Agent Milton became a blur of grey and black and fine crimson.

“Don't worry Miss. He won't shoot you,” Milton said, though he still looked at the man behind her. “Not if he knows what's good for him!"

“My patience is wearin’ thin, Mister Milton.”

“You want a deal? Let the girl go,” the agent said evenly. “Give yourselves up and we’ll see you get a fair trial.”

Dutch chuckled coldly. “Fair? What does this godforsaken country know about fair?”

“I’ll even give your little camp of lost souls a chance to scatter.”

“This sounds like a shit deal, Boss.”

“It’s a _fair_ deal,” Agent Milton said. “Considering your records. I know all about your boys, Dutch. The United States Government does not negotiate with outlaws.”

“He ain’t takin’ _you_ seriously, Dutch,” someone hissed over from the right.

“Last chance, Mr. Milton,” Dutch shouted.

“You won’t do it,” Agent Milton said. “You know I’m offering your gang their best option.”

“Show ‘im. It’ll buy us a chance to even out the odds and grab some cover.”

The arm around her chest loosened and came away. A palm to her back, between her shoulder blades, shoved her forward. Heidi pitched to her hands and knees. She pushed herself back up to her feet. Her legs felt boneless; her balance fragile. She took a step toward the Agent and the good men at the end of the dock.

Relief began to sooth her jangled nerves.

Until a shot cracked the air and sudden piercing pressure at the back of her skull bloomed into oblivion.


	32. Way Down We Go

It was hot in Sam Wah’s shop. Uncomfortably so with the stove fed constant to keep the heavy irons hot and only two small windows located in the front of the building to let in any air. A man worked at the ironing board, pressing neat pleats and seams and finished his pass before coming to the counter. Sweat dotted his brow. Skin smooth as a freshly shed crepe myrtle tree. Hair cropped short and neat, glossy as the ink they used to mark their tickets.

He made a claim ticket with a slip of paper, a brush and that fine black ink.

“Bring back ticket when you pick up,” he said and Arthur Morgan nodded, holding up the little bill of paper.

“Thank you.” Arthur tucked it away in his billfold and slid it into his satchel before stepping outside into the bustle and dust of Blackwater.

“How you trust they’ll get it right?” a man asked. “When they can barely speak any English?”

Arthur shrugged. “I don’t speak too good neither.”

“Don’t you have a woman to do the washing?”

Arthur stopped and turned to look at him. He seemed to be of an age with Arthur. His long face held no softness. Dark hair and sharp-eyed, upper lip covered by a thick, neat mustache. He wore an old cavalry hat, stained from rain and sweat. Chaps and spurs and a rig on his hip. A ’51 Colt Navy. Well oiled. He loitered, leaning next to Wah’s door, smoking. He had not been there when Arthur entered.

“I somehow doubt that’s any of yer concern.”

The man blew out a puff of smoke. “Yeah,” he continued. Heedless or indifferent. “Morgan was it?”

“Who’s askin’?”

“Hear you got a fine lady.” He took a long drag of his smoke, appraising Arthur. “Ain’t you a little old for a stable boy?” the man asked.

“Got a late start.”

“No kiddin’.” The man chuckled. “You, uh, ever been in Illinois?”

“Never,” Arthur said. “Didn’t catch yer name, fella.”

“Didn’t give it.”

Arthur watched him a moment. The man still leaned, relaxed. One hand holding his cigarette. The other sitting easy in the pocket of his jeans. “You, uh, always this disagreeable?”

He smirked. “The name’s Ike,” he said. “Ike Skelding.”

“Do we have a problem, Mr. Skelding?” Arthur asked. The name meant nothing, but Arthur did not like the look of him. Skelding pinched the last bit of cigarette between his thumb and middle finger, the tips yellowed from tobacco, and took a last drag.

“Not yet,” Skelding decided, tossing the butt on the ground. He blew out the smoke. “You take care now, Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur watched the disagreeable feller go. No good would come of this, he knew and not for the first time Arthur felt vulnerable living so plainly in sight. When Emelia got back, he would have to convince her to move on. Go stake a claim somewhere remote and quiet.

Arthur returned to the wagon and drove Bailey just a little further south and came to a halt past Dutton’s Tack and Feed. Along the East side of the Avenue, beneath the branches of a sycamore and out of all the damn traffic. Arthur loosened enough lead for Bella to enjoy the grass before retrieving the worn cutter saddle from the back of the wagon and walked back the fifty or so meters across the busy T section of Van Horn Street and Sisika Avenue to the two-story shop.

The bell chimed over his head as he entered and found Ralph Dutton already counting his cash.

“How are working men supposed to put in a full day with you closin’ up so early?”

Dutton laughed. “Get better help, I’d wager.”

“Funny,” Arthur said.

“I suppose that there’s the saddle Eric mentioned Sunday?”

Arthur nodded. He swung it onto the counter. Dutton closed his lockbox and placed it back beneath the counter. He looked at the saddle.

“Yup,” he said. “Pad is shot.”

“How long, you reckon?”

Dutton shrugged. “Got the material. Could have it fixed up in a day or so.”

“I’m back in town Saturday.”

Ralph nodded. “That’ll work. Tell Eric I’ll just add it to his account. He can pay at the end of the month.”

 “An’ them new bridles he wanted?”

“Sure do,” Dutton said, lifting the saddle. He stepped out back. Arthur heard the rummaging in the workroom and waited. Dutton returned with three bridles. All good leather. Fine tooling along the brow and nose bands.

Arthur heard a pop. He held up his hand for silence and strained to listen. Over the sound of his own breathing and the metal fan whirring on the counter and the ticking clock the sound came again and again. The fast, erratic exchange of gunfire. People screaming and hollering. Muffled but unmistakable. “Is that --?” Dutton crouched behind his counter.

Arthur went to the window and peered through the drapes. Men and women, some dragging children with them, fled south along the avenue. Away from the dock. Fear, real fear, settled like a block of ice in Arthur’s guts.

He opened the door and stepped off the wooden walkway and into the street and the current of fleeing folk. Stared down the length of dirt road. Over the heads of screaming civilians rushing like a salmon run from the docks and through the gathering fog of churned up dust and gun smoke he saw the massing of law and the flashes of gunfire. They fired in the direction of the docks.

“Christ,” Arthur said and his fear then turned into something else. He turned and ran past Dutton’s and down the wide red stone sidewalk of Van Horn Street. Hung a hard right between Neely’s and Dutton’s and hurried through the choked and jagged little dirt alleyway that ran behind Sisika’s crowded storefronts. Arthur vaulted over the legs of a drunk, pushed off the wall to right himself and continued. Loose chickens took flight, clucking indignant, feathers flying and Arthur did not check his step. The gunfire drew closer. Closer. He rushed through rows of clean sheets and almost collided with a group of men in the heat of a brawl.

Bill Williamson struggled against a wood pile, one man slamming his head into the roughhewn logs as another fought to get a set of irons on the trashing outlaw. Two more bounty hunters advanced on Charles Smith. The half-breed backed away, bleeding from his thigh.

Arthur surged forward on instinct.  Shoulder lowered, he slammed into the man holding Bill down, sending the two of them careening away from the woodpile.  Arthur got his legs under him in an instant, grabbing Bill's attacker by the front of his shirt and slamming him headfirst into the wall.

“Shit, another one!”

One of Charles' attackers turned to face Arthur, his gun halfway freed from the holster when Arthur clocked his jaw with a crushing uppercut.  The force of the punch lifted the attacker from his feet and sent him crashing to the ground.  The last man drew his gun, taking aim. Arthur reached for his .45…

Charles pounced, wrapping an arm around the man and plunging a knife in his neck and back.  Blood poured forth and the two men fell in a mess of gore and dust, Charles rolling aside from the dying attacker. Two shots followed almost from behind; Bill held his gun, standing over his last attacker, two bullet holes in the man's chest.

“Thought you was done?” Bill demanded, bitter and panting.

Arthur did not spare an answer. The gunfire at the docks carried on and he moved down the ally and they followed. Arthur skid to a stop at the station and looked through the window before checking the back door and found it unlocked. It pushed in on its hinges and he entered. No one remained. Even the cells were empty. Ready for the gang of idiots out on the dock.

Outside, the shooting died down. Arthur hedged to the front of the station and peered out the window. He could not see the docks from there, but he could hear someone shouting.

“Dutch van der Linde!" someone cried out.  "This is Agent Milton of the Pinkerton Detective Agency!”

“Pinkertons?” Arthur muttered. Jesus Christ…Bounty hunters and the entire Blackwater Police force. “What have you fools done?”

“Oh, like yer so damn smart?” Bill demanded.

“I swear to God, Bill,” Arthur grumbled. “If _anything_ happens to Emma I will kill every last one of you.”

“Oh. _That’s_ what this is all about?”

“What do you want to do, Arthur?” Charles asked.

“Okay,” Arthur said. He paused, thinking, and looked out the window again. They had cover here.  They could catch every single one of them lawmen in a crossfire. It would be a massacre.

Arthur sighed.

He could shoot bounty killers and strike breakers. Hell… even the corrupt names that populated Worthington’s precious ledger. But he knew now, that there were honest men too, standing against the gang. He had sat next to Emelia, during service. In those hard-wooden pews, hat on his lap and fingers laced with hers. He did not buy everything the Reverend said. But he saw the faces in the community, now and he could no longer pretend that they had no names or unsee their children.

Arthur went back the way they came. Moving with haste, he grabbed books and old copies of newspapers and a stuffed pheasant. Tossed it all on the floor near a pile of wood stacked next to the little sheet iron stove in the center of the building. He flipped the little circular table. Three wooden chairs.

“What are you doin’ Morgan?”

“Endin’ all this goddamn stupidity.”

Charles caught on and began breaking apart the spindled chairs into kindling while Bill stood dumb, watching. To the right of the back door a single bed sat behind a green drape. Arthur ripped the drape off the brass rings. Stripped the bedding and added the sheets and blanket to the pile. They would smoke up real good…

“How is makin’ a mess of the place gonna do that?”

Arthur threw opened the weapons closet. Slung a Winchester 86 over his shoulder for himself and a box of .45-70 cartridges and slipped it into his satchel. Just in case.

“Where’d you leave the horses?” Arthur asked instead. He threw a box of shotgun shells on the pile.

“With Sean, over by City Hall. Was some shade and grass.”

“Go get ‘em then,” Arthur said. He ripped the pretty glass lamps, sconces and all, from the walls and started dumping the kerosene. “Once this starts, you won’t have much time.”

“Once what starts?”

“Just go, goddamn it!”

They did not go. Charles instead helped Arthur dump the last of the oil while Bill watched with that stupid frown on his face, mouth agape like a trout. Arthur pulled a match from his satchel and popped it with his thumb. Tossed it on the fuel and the flame sprang quick. Smoke rose up and crawled along the ceiling like some slithering thing.

“Time to go.”

They came out between the station and the Blackwater Hotel, standing in the shade of the gallows that abutted the brick and mortar cells, and Arthur saw the blue-backs of the police and could see them fancy big city agents had a wagon with a machine gun ready. The gunner was not firing. Yet.

“Over there,” Charles said, pointing to the gang’s herd. The horses stood in the field across Tallulah Place, before City Hall, in the shade of a great old oak. Charles frowned. “Some of the horses are missing and… I don’t see Sean.”

“Fuck,” Bill muttered. “Where is that idiot?”

“That’s the pot callin’ the kettle black,” Arthur muttered. “Go find ‘im.”

There was a taut strain in the air. The cops and agents were not moving but he could not see. Arthur looked at the gallows. Leapt. Grabbed hold of a joist and hauled himself up with no small effort. Smoke already poured from the back door of the station. Time was short. Arthur looked to the pier.

Where Dutch held a red-haired girl before him. His gun to her head.

_Christ, that’s Heidi!_

Arthur scanned the dock for Emelia and did not see her. Not among the gang members cowering behind the stairs of the pier or crates. Nor littered among the few unfortunates hit during the initial exchange.

“Last chance, Mr. Milton,” Dutch shouted hoarsely.

“You won’t do it,” the other man said. “You know I’m offering your gang their best option.”

_Don’t do it, Dutch._

They would surrender, Arthur thought. No other choice now, against these odds. Dutch would take the high road as he always did. He would let Heidi go and for that mercy Arthur vowed he would get them out, somehow, before they faced the gallows. One last time…

Then Dutch shoved Heidi forward and for one shining fraction Arthur felt his faith surge. Dutch raised his gun and that single shot rang out and Heidi’s head cracked open like a watermelon.

Arthur blinked, stunned.

The lawmen at the dock entrance were startled for a but moment. Micah fired once and the gunner slumped over the maxim gun and the gang surged forward in an instant with the kills, lashing out like animals, their gunfire forcing the police back and sending Agent Milton and his men scrambling for cover. The gang, in a miraculous instant, almost escaped the docks.

“Kill them!” Milton shouted.  The order kicked the Pinkertons and police back into action, and the renewed, withering fire forced Dutch back only inches from freedom. "Kill them!  Get that gun up!  Now!"

Then Arthur saw Emelia. Skirts clasped and running and alive and running for the goddamn fool cops bleeding out in the dirt, alive for now, and running into the line of fire all while his fool family fought their way off them docks. Stupid, brave girl…

“Emma!”

Arthur dropped down the single story from the gallows and kept his feet beneath him and sprinted for Emelia. Reached her in front of the mortuary and wrapped his arms around her and hauled her back and down behind the meat wagon. Out of the line of fire.

“Arthur,” she gasped. Emelia clutched at him, arms around his waist, desperate and relieved. “I heard shots and I didn’t know what to do and then I looked and saw the men in the street --”

“We gotta go,” he said.

“Fire!” someone shouted.

“Fire! Fire! Fire!” followed the startled bleating. Just as Arthur hoped, the boys from Blackwater turned and looked and saw the sunset now darkened with smoke and they answered the call. Priority shifting to save their town as the fire moved from the station to the mortuary. The wind carried the flames south and the meat market would be next, and the tailor after that and all Sisika Avenue would burn if they did not act now.

The Van der Linde Gang charged forward, guns ablaze and shots ringing and the men at the end of the docks fell away, shot dead or hurrying like frightened hares for cover.

Emelia had pulled back from Arthur enough to see. She watched it all, eyes wide with abject horror. “Oh, my Lord! Arthur, we have to help!”

Arthur did not know if she meant the gunfight or the fire and he did not care. He kept himself between her and the hell breaking loose behind him. “It don’t matter.”

“They need help,” Emelia said, her eyes still fixed on the carnage. “My saddle bags! Where’s the wagon?”

He held her arm firm and looked south. Saw Belladonna rearing and straining against her lead and Bailey tossing his old head. “We gotta go, Emma” Arthur said. He gripped her hand firmly and started running.

“People are dying,” Emelia exclaimed, confused, stumbling next to him. Guns still sounded and she tried to look back and Arthur hooked an arm around her waist and hauled her toward the horses.

“We gotta go!”

“Arthur!” she cried. She resisted, trying to dig in her heels. “We have to find Heidi first.”

A bullet hit the ground just to the left of his intended path, sending a puff of dirt into the air and somewhere a horse screamed. Arthur pulled more forcefully. “Let’s go, Emma!”

“Please!” she gasped, stumbling. “Arthur! You’re hurting me!”

Arthur stopped. “I, I’m sorry, Emma,” he said, panting. Her eyes were white with fear, wrist red from where he gripped her. “I’m sorry. Please, I just –”

“We can’t just leave her here!” Emelia insisted. She turned, ready to run back into the thick of it, so brave and selfless to the point of stupidity. Despite the thick smoke obscuring the ferry terminal and the gunfire and the roaring flames licking the sky, throwing a hellish heat. He grabbed her arm.

“She’s dead, goddammit!”

Emelia stopped, turning to him and he relaxed his grip. “W-what?”

Arthur could not take the words back. More softly now he said, “she’s dead, Emma.”

Emelia’s mouth dropped open but no sound came out.

“ _Please_ , Emma,” Arthur tried. He reached for her, taking her hand more gently and she did not recoil. “They’re gonna wanna hang someone for this.”

“You don’t mean…” Emelia inhaled a sharp breath. “But, you’ve quit! Surely they’ll understand --”

“They won’t,” Arthur said, shaking his head. He tugged her hand and Emelia went willing now, those last few meters. Arthur helped her into the wagon. Emelia looked back once more at the city, burning and bleeding like it was, tears in her eyes. “But…” She shook her head in denial. “ _This_ isn’t your fault, Arthur.”

“They ain’t gonna see it that way,” he replied, climbing up next to her. He laid the Winchester down at their feet before snapping the reins. The wagon jolted into motion. He pushed Bailey to a brisk pace, as fast as the wagon could withstand, looking for distance.

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Emelia tried again.

“Oh, I’ve done plenty wrong,” Arthur replied bitterly. He had tried to warn her, hadn’t he? That this life would follow them.

“So what now?” she asked. Emelia linked her arm with his and leaned against him. In truth, Arthur did not know. It had always been Dutch who made these choices. “Do we go home?”

“We gotta run,” he said. “Get outta this state quick as possible an’ hope the law won’t want to waste too much resource on an old degenerate and his upstandin’ little lady.”

For a moment Emeila remained quiet. Then she said, “We should tell Eric and Lydia.”

Arthur sighed. He had been in some awful scrapes over the years. Gunfights and brawls and deals gone bad. But looking McCourt in the face and telling him his little girl was dead? Slaughtered like an animal? That turned Arthur yellow. It was not simply the guilt of his connection to the whole mess, though Arthur now had plenty to regret. No. It was in the knowing firsthand the cold pain that gripped the heart and the anger and the helplessness that followed the loss of a beloved child. The coulda, shoulda, wouldas that come too damn late.

 “Yeah,” Arthur conceded. He owed McCourt that, at least, for taking a chance on him. Like a compass, Emelia always pointed true without ever thinking about it. “You’re right, darlin’.”

“Arthur! _My_ boy!”

They both looked to the voice.

Dutch rode up fast, grim faced and white knuckled, his albino Arabian tossing his head. Davey groaned behind him, listing, barely hanging on. Lenny rode behind on his horse with little Jenny Kirk, also in a bad way. Head lolling about and blood everywhere. The horses stamped about, set on edge by the scent. They overtook the wagon and came to a halt in front, forcing Arthur to stop and old Bailey flattened his ears. Emelia’s grip on Arthur’s arm tightened, recognizing Dutch without ever needing to meet him.

“Dutch!” Arthur shouted. “What the hell were you thinkin’?”

“Son.” The sincerity in Dutch’s voice caused something to twist inside Arthur’s chest. “Am I ever glad to see you!”

“I want nothin’ to do with this! Of all the disagreeable, stupid --”

Dutch did not hear a word Arthur said. “You _never_ let us down.”


	33. Will We Last the Night?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, readers, for your time. You folks keep me going.

“Goddamn it, Dutch! I --.”

“Please, Arthur,” he implored, guiding his pale horse closer. The large blond man behind Dutch groaned in pain, his head lolling forward. “We got folk here in need of this here wagon o’ yours and this fine doctor’s care…Miss,” and with all the skill of a statesman Dutch looked her in the eye. He placed a hand over his heart. “If you would be _so_ kind.”

His deep voice cracked with sincere emotion, and his dark eyes stared unflinching in a classic display of forthright honesty. But the sky behind him was red and swollen and the smoke and commotion drifted on the wind. Heidi was dead. Emelia avoided looking at the two casualties. She swallowed and leaned more firmly against Arthur. “And if I don’t?” she asked tightly.

Dutch stared at Emelia a moment and she did not miss the cold twitch of his upper lip beneath the thick black mustache. He changed targets; his gaze shifted back to Arthur.

“Look at them, son.”

Arthur looked from beneath the brim of his hat. For a moment he said nothing. He swallowed and looked away, shaking his head. “That… that weren’t nice, Dutch,” he said. “What went on back there. That was --”

“I know, Arthur!” Dutch boomed and her lover’s words died in his throat. “But what choice did I – did any of us - have? They would’ve _killed_ us! Like _animals_. And you _know_ it!”

Arthur did not look up, but he nodded his head in weak, battered agreement. Emelia squeezed his arm. _Please, please, please, feel that I am here with you. For you…_

“Please, Arthur,” the blond girl whimpered. Emelia looked at the small, young woman sitting behind a colored boy. She wore a skirt and bodice of emerald silk taffeta. Her head rested against the boy’s lean shoulder; one arm weakly looped around his waist. Tears tracked down her cheeks. “It hurts somethin’ awful.”

Arthur sighed.  Those broad shoulders collapsed and Emelia’s hope sank with them. He placed his hand over Emelia’s own, upon his bicep. Arthur could not look at her. “Emma.”

“No, Arthur,” Emelia said. Her eyes started to sting and a lump swelled in her throat. “Please. _Please_ don’t ask me to do this. Heidi… she, she --”

“Shh, easy,” Arthur soothed. “I know, darlin’. I know. It’s just --”

Arthur closed his eyes a moment, his head tipping downward and Emelia’s heart broke. She let out a shaking breath. _You never let us down…_ “Arthur. _Please_.”

“I owe ‘em my _life_ , Em,” he said, voice raw and he looked at her with eyes so sad and sorry Emelia felt torn. “I… I can’t watch ‘em get destroyed. Just… let me get ‘em clear. Please. One last time.”

“That’s _my_ boy!” Dutch crowed.

_You never let us down…_

Van der Linde urged his horse forward, moving to the back of the cart. Belladonna tossed her head and tried sidling away from the scent of death. “Now will you get down from there, _son,_ and help us? We need to get these folks back to camp and patched up.”

Arthur sighed again and patted Emelia’s knee before he climbed down from the wagon. He went to Dutch. Grabbed Davey’s arm, prepared to tear him down from his seat. Emelia winced.

“Careful!” she exclaimed. Arthur paused and looked at her. “He’s not some carcass to toss around. You could make things worse.”

She regretted the words the instant they left her lips. These were not innocents caught in a crossfire, or men defending their home. She looked back to Blackwater, thought of the wounded _there_ in need of her skill. But a relieved smile ghosted across Arthur’s handsome and weary face and it softened her heart to see it.

“Alright, darlin’,” he said. “How you wanna see it done?”

“Carefully,” she stressed. “Also, Mr. Van der Linde will dismount and take the man’s feet.”

Again Dutch looked at her, a perturbed little frown creasing his brow.

“Heh.” Arthur smirked. “You heard the lady. Get movin’.”

“Of course,” Dutch allowed, his voice low and brittle and Arthur braced Davey as the leader dismounted. Emelia gathered her skirts and scrambled over the seat to clear space as they eased the man down. She moved Bella’s saddle and pad and her supplies before meeting them at the back. She coaxed Belladonna to the side before unlatching the gate. It swung open with a racket and the little mare whinnied and stamped her fore hooves indignantly.

“Shh-shh-shh, girl,” Emelia tried.

“Now what, darlin’?”

“Ease his shoulders onto the cart. That’s it. Let me help you.”

Emelia gripped beneath the wounded man’s huge arms and the pungent stink of sweat and blood struck, and her stomach roiled. Emelia paused a moment, struggling to control her nausea.

“You alright?” Arthur asked.

She swallowed it down and nodded. “Okay... I have him,” Emelia managed. “Climb up here and pull him forward. _Gently_ , Arthur.”

They loaded Jenny next. The girl moaned like some young wounded animal, reciting some long-forgotten fragments of prayer suddenly found on the wheezing breeze of her pained breaths.

“Can you hear me?” Emelia asked her.

The girl bit hard on her lip, turning it white, and nodded.

“What’s your name?”

“Jenny, Miss. Jenny Kirk.”

Emelia noticed the larger wound in Jenny’s side. She opened her satchel and removed pads of clean folded cloth.

“Lenny,” Dutch shouted as he climbed back into the saddle. “I want you outridin’ for ‘em.”

“Outriding?” Emelia asked. “But who will help me keep pressure on the wounds?”

“That sounds like your problem, Doc.”

“It is not my problem, Mr. Van der Linde, I assure you!” Emelia insisted.  Just as Davey lashed out. Groaning through grinding teeth he kicked at the wall of the wagon and guilt swelled in her chest. Had they left Heidi in a pool of blood? Had anyone even tried to help her?

Lenny urged his mare forward and dismounted.

“You’re gonna be in a world of trouble if any of ‘em decide to run you down,” the older outlaw warned.

“I’ll watch our backs,” Lenny insisted, tethering his horse to the wagon. Emelia recognized him; the slim youth who helped rob her back in March, and the resentment and anger swelled again.

“Suit yerselves, then,” Dutch said. “Just make sure you all make it back safe.”

“An’ where you goin’?” Arthur asked as he settled back in the driving seat.

“Got some unfinished business,” Dutch replied archly. “I’ll meet you back at camp. Go on. Get them packin’.”

“Let’s get to it then.”

Lenny climbed in back as Dutch rode off. He settled next to Jenny and Arthur cracked the reins.

“Hey, Jenny girl,” he said softly.

“Lenny?” the girl breathed. She reached for him; her hands bloody. The boy did not flinch.

“I’m here,” he insisted, clasping her palm. Though his voice and hands were steady his eyes lingered over the wound, white with fear. “I’m right here.”

“I’m scared.”

“You’re doing just fine.”

“That’s it,” Emelia said, handing Lenny two thick pads of cloth for exudate. She left the clean dressing strips in her satchel untouched, saving them for later. If they survived so long. “Keep her calm and apply pressure on the wounds. Exactly. There, also,” she added, pointing to the exit wound.

Lenny nodded. “Yes, Doctor.”

“How long?” Emelia asked, glancing over her shoulder to Arthur.

“Couple hours,” he said. “Camp weren’t too far from town.”

Emelia pulled the syringes and the dark amber bottle of morphine from the rattling contents of her bags. Just as Davey kicked the wall again, so hard Emelia felt the sharp sudden jolt through the wood over the steady rumbling.

“Easy,” she soothed. She drew a few milligrams from the bottle, guessing him to be near 250 pounds. “And you?” she asked him, out of habit. “Davey, was it?”

“Fuck’s sake, Morgan,” Davey snarled through clenched teeth. His face contorted. “I’m bleedin’ to death and yer whore’s wastin’ my spit.”

“Watch yer goddamn mouth!” Arthur snapped. Loud enough to be clear over the wheels and the horses and jostling cart. “You say somethin’ like that again an’ Emma here’ll have nothin’ left to save.”

A dark part of Emelia’s heart warmed to Arthur’s violent promise, easing the sting of the unprovoked insult. The big wounded brute looked at her, face screwed with pain and coated in a sheen of sweat. His red rimmed eyes were loaded with malice, looking like he held a particularly vile poison on his tongue.

 “Understand me, you dumb bastard?” Arthur pressed.

“Yeah…” Davey grumbled. He drew a sharp, pained breath. “Yeah, I understand you. Hayseed.”

Arthur snickered. “Good.”

In the big city infirmaries, where the patients were laid out on their narrow little beds, all white and straight like cigarettes in a tin. White and straight until covered in blood and puss and refuse. There Emelia had the fortune to observe all manner of things. Aggressive and devastating illnesses and wounds inflicted in passion or cold calculation or naked cruelty and one thing remained the same in all this. That pain was felt differently and uniquely by each soul. And while some could suffer in a stoic grace, it brought out the absolute worst in others.

Emelia felt shame. She sighed. “I understand it’s the pain talking.”

“Nah,” Arthur grumbled, voice softening. “He’s just a mean sonovabitch.”

“Well… either way, this will help,” she said, jabbing Davey with the needle. “Try to stay calm.”

“We got company,” Lenny announced, drawing his revolver and she saw the shapes of horsemen in the gathering darkness of the plains. Then heard the hoof-beats thundering over the trundling of the wheels over dirt and rock.

“Stop!” came the order. “Stop in the name of the law!”

Emelia recognized the young voice. _Oh, Billy. Please, please, just go home to your family… Lord, let him go home…_

Lenny answered with a shot and the pops of dueling pistols followed and continued over the din and the whinnying of her poor horse – unused to gunfire and driven mad with fear. Emelia did not wish to know whom, exactly, pursued them. She focused on keeping pressure on Davey’s wound, hands sticky, struggling to quell the sickness in her own stomach despite the motion the smells.

A bullet impacted next to Emelia’s shoulder, wood cracking and splinters flying and she flinched with a cry.

“Emma!”

She recognized the raw edge of his voice and met Arthur’s bright gaze for a fleeting second.

“You alright?”

Emelia nodded.

“Whoa!” Arthur shouted, drawing up on the reins, and the old horse began to slow. He reached for the rifle at his feet, mouth cast in a grim line. His eyes hard and angry. Arthur stood, steady on those sturdy legs, swinging the barrel over their heads as the finger lever clicked and then the air cracked above her.

_Click-click._ Bang!

A brassy shell casing bounced and landed next to her.

_Click-click._ Bang!

And then nothing above the rumble of the halting wagon and squealing of horses.

“ _Damn_ , Arthur!” Lenny hooted.

Arthur, for his part, did not acknowledge the praise and Emelia still felt sick. Her eyes stung and she did not look. Could not look. She focused on Jenny and Davey. The wagon started moving again, and Emelia gave Jenny a shot of morphine. A steady stream of babble poured from her mouth as the sun sank. To keep them awake and coherent as if it could somehow keep them alive longer, wounds be damned. She asked them about childhood friends and school and found them woefully lacking. Their parents were drunks and whores and like unwanted refuse they slipped into the gutters. A variation of Arthur’s own sad story.

“Who goes there?” a voice demanded.

Emelia looked over the bench. She had imagined a shanty of tents and found instead, a camp out of fantasy. More a home then she imagined it could be, all aglow in fire and lantern light on the shores of the Flat Iron, lurking beyond all black and still in the dusk.

“Me an’ Lenny,” Arthur shouted.

“Arthur?!” the old man asked. She could see the rosy buttoned nose and snowy bush beneath a ratty doe-skin hat. He grinned, showing his missing teeth. “Well, I’ll be!”

“You’re back!” a young colored woman exclaimed.

They greeted him warmly, all jubilance and excitement, indeed akin to siblings rushing a foyer upon the return of a beloved brother. Arthur drew the wagon to a halt within a circle of tents.

“Susan!” Arthur’s voice boomed. He leapt down from the seat. “We need ya! _Now_!”

A grim older woman strode forward, head high and hair teased up into a great brown pompadour, shot with streaks of silver white. A deep, brutal scar lurked in the soft flesh of her left cheek, cast deeper by the flickering light.

“Ms. Grimshaw.” Arthur nodded in brief greeting. He herded the older woman toward the wagon. “We got some folk here in need of care. Now, Emma here –”

“I need a flat, stable surface,” Emelia said. “Good lighting, a basin and water, bandages. The cleaner the better.”

Grimshaw nodded. “Ms. Roberts! Reverend!”

 “What happened?” Hosea asked, coming forward with the rest.

“Nothin’ good,” Arthur said. He already untethered Belladonna and Lenny’s horse and lead them to some hitching posts. “You need to get folk movin’. Now.”

“Where’s Dutch? And the rest?”

“Tryin’ to confuse the law, I guess,” Arthur reasoned, tying the horses. “They’ll start makin’ their way back, sure enough. In the meantime though…”

Hosea nodded. “We best be ready to run.”

“Where’s John?” a woman asked and Emelia recognized Abigail Robert’s sour face. A little boy hid behind her brown striped skirts.

“Out with the rest of them fools,” Arthur groused. “Focus on what needs doin’ here.”

“This way, Miss.”

Emelia turned to the stern older woman. “Ms. Grimshaw, was it?”

The woman nodded and motioned toward a chuck wagon where two long sets of planks were being set upon sturdy trestles. Gas lanterns were hung nearby on the wagon. All next to a pronghorn carcass hanging by its ankles, open and empty of viscera.

“This will have to do,” Emelia said.

“It’s the best we could do with no notice,” Ms. Grimshaw said indignantly.

“I… I didn’t mean –”

A gentle press to the small of her back wrested Emelia from her dismay.

“Where you want yer things, darlin’?”

Oh, how softly he spoke. Emelia looked at Arthur, with her equipment slung over one strong shoulder and tears pricked her eyes. He clasped the back of her neck and kissed her brow. A heartening embrace, and assurance that her gentle horseman, her writer, her artist, her lover was still with her in this nightmare, hidden somewhere in this merciless killer.

She gripped his hand.

_Oh, let’s just run!_ _Let’s bring the wagon back and tell the McCourt’s what happened. They won’t blame you, how could they blame you, when you’ve been working, trying, so hard?_

Jenny whimpered as they set her down and all thought of leaving withered in her throat. She released his hand.

“Um… just over there,” she said, gesturing. “On that barrel next to the wash basin, I suppose.”

Arthur arranged the satchels while she washed her hands. Emelia selected the bottle of carbolic solution and paused. She pulled off her ring.

“Arthur.”

“Yeah, darlin’?”

She held it out and Arthur stared at it.

“Emma, I –”

“Hold on to it, please?”

Arthur sighed. “I... I understand,” he said. Holding his callused palm open for her, she placed the dainty piece of turquoise jewelry there and watched it disappear safely into his fist.

Emelia set herself to the difficult task of saving two degenerates from their poor choices. She opened the bottle and the strange tarry, sweet smell wafted up and mingled with the sweat and blood and the gaminess of the pronghorn and whatever was burning in the bottom of the now forgotten cast-iron pot that hung over the cooking fire. Her stomach flipped in earnest. Emelia set the precious bottle down quick and braced herself as she heaved, waiting for the nausea to pass. She felt the sudden comforting touch of his hand, heavy against her back.

“You sure yer alright?” Arthur asked again. “Yer white as a sheet.”

“Yes.” Emelia nodded, composing herself. “Yes… I’m just… I’m scared Arthur.”

“I know,” he said, quietly. “I’m sorry. We’ll get clear soon as we can.”

Emelia looked at Arthur, his dark brows furrowed with concern. “Do you promise?”

He nodded. “I do,” he said. “So…if yer alright an’ all, I’m uh, gonna go get Bailey some water an’ feed an’…” his voice trailed off. He rubbed the back of his neck, telling her of his nervous worry. “If you need me – fer anything - just holler, you understand? I won’t be far.”

“Thank you,” she said despite her gnawing fear. Be good, she wanted to tell him, but she thought of Billy Kerrigan and whomever else Arthur had shot out on the road and knew it was already too late for that. She watched him go. You never let us down, Dutch had said, and the worry sat heavy in Emelia’s heart like a stone.

“Who will be assisting me?” she asked as she finished washing her hands.

“I will,” Roberts said. “Got the steadiest hands and the strongest stomach. And, Reverend Swanson here. In case.”

“I need you to wash before we proceed any further,” Emelia explained. “With soap and water and then rub your hands with this solution.”

“Why,” Roberts asked, even as the Reverend did as told. “Seems like a waste of time when they’re bleedin’ so.”

Emelia bit down the temptation to defend her request. Trying to explain Pasteur’s theory of putrefaction or Lister’s convoluted paper on antiseptics would only waste further precious time. She took a deep breath. “Please, Ms. Roberts?” she asked. “It will only take but a moment and will increase our chances of success a hundred-fold.”

Roberts looked at her skeptically. “Alright.”

“Miss Kirk is worse off,” Emelia reasoned. She looked at the steady flow of blood and worried. “Please keep pressure on Mr. Callendar’s wound, Reverend.”

“I will do my best, Doctor,” the gaunt man said, his hands shaking.

“Get the whiskey,” Roberts said.

“No! No whiskey –”

“This ain’t our first time treatin’ gunshots, ya know,” Ms. Roberts bristled.

Emelia looked at her steadily. Again, she considered begging Arthur to take them home or anywhere but here. “Do you want my help or not?” she asked.

“Yes,” Lenny said. He stood over Jenny, his hands firm against the fabric padding. His brows soft and earnest over his wide eyes. “We do.”

“I have more effective methods,” Emelia tried. “Please. Just… trust me.”

Abigail looked at Lenny and then back to Emelia and gave a small nod. Emelia leaned over Jenny and set to cleaning the site. “Can someone please hold a lantern. Yes… about there.”

The bleeding proved steady and lighting was terrible, casting dancing shadows amidst the gore and she strained to discern the true damage. Emelia marveled at Jenny’s luck, assessing but a single nicked artery releasing a steady pulse of blood. A slow but tireless leak that would have bled out eventually.  

“I need an open lantern,” Emelia said as she controlled the hemorrhaging with two snap-catch forceps. A large balding man in a black, threadbare sweater brought one over and Emelia held a small surgical knife directly over the flame.

“Don’t seem too hot,” he said with an awkward chuckle.

“It is plenty hot,” she replied, wrinkling her nose at the sweet stink of rum.

“You sure you wouldn’t prefer a poker from the fire or some gunpowder?” Roberts asked.

Emelia ignored the suggestion. She held the tiny knife to the tissue and still Jenny hissed in pain, squeezing Lenny’s slender hands. In quick, 1-2 second counts. Emelia heated the metal again after each press. Three times she did this, guessing as much as seeing in the poor light and she prayed.

“Cover the wound lightly,” she ordered. “Infection is her enemy now.”

Emelia washed her hands and the tools, and again she wiped down with the carbolic mixture. Davey was next. The bullet had not found its way out. Emelia cleaned the wound as best she could and then set to the task of finding it.

Reverend Swanson held the lantern and the mirror in his shaking hands. “In you I trust, O my God,” he recited. “Do not let me be put to shame, nor let my enemies triumph over me…”

_Do not let me be put to shame._ Emelia saw the silvery glint of lead in the poor light. Went for it. Felt something pinched in the forceps. The sudden, foreign hardness. It slipped. The soft click of metal tongs grasping nothing. Emelia paused. Inhaled deep. She grounded herself and tried again. Felt that hard little ball of success grasped through the length of forceps and pulled out the shot. Emelia brought it close and inspected it and found the lead whole.

 She sighed.

Emelia’s gaze flicked up a moment to find Abigail Roberts staring at her. Blue eyes wide. Dark, dark hair falling across her pale brow. Emelia turned her eyes back to the wound. She cauterized what she could and though Davey surely felt it, he endured the operation in grim silence. And all the while Emelia resented their luck. Vital organs missed by fractions of a millimeters. Why? Why them and not Heidi?

“What now?” Abigail asked.

“You pray,” Emelia said tersely.

Emelia left Roberts to dress the wound, stepping away from the makeshift operating tables and found the camp all but torn down. Plush rugs and pillows lay in the dirt, forgotten in haste. The pronghorn carcass laid abandoned and covered in dust. The other thieves had rolled in over the course of the long night and were now packing. A muted sense of dread seemed to taint the air.

Her head ached. Emelia wandered off on tired feet, deadened and numb, just outside the circle of wagons. Beyond the voices and there she collapsed on her knees. The dirt sticking to the blood on her hands and there Emelia was sick, retching until her sides ached and her nose burned and there was nothing left in her nervous belly.

She sobbed, longing to go home. To their tidy little cabin. To that very morning when she dozed, safe and content and oblivious in Arthur’s arms. Why had she not just cancelled? Maybe Heidi would have cancelled too. Maybe… Oh, Heidi. Dead. At whose hands, Emelia wondered and a part of her did not want to know. Dead while these thieves were granted a second chance. She thought of their home and her practice, all reduced to ash and Arthur…

_You never let us down…_

It was not his fault. She could feel it in her heart and yet, he had killed tonight, had he not? And Lord only knew what else.

_Oh, Arthur, what did you do?_

His brand of protection was unsparing and final and did nothing to blunt her love. Emelia saw everything he was, for good and for ill, and everything he could be.

And she wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Psalm 25:2


End file.
